Promises
by Miss Laine
Summary: COMPLETE! Harry has spent a long time with Voldemort destroying his life. But it is the promises that are important...in the end they are all that matters. Epilogue up finally. How does it finally end?
1. Neville's Promise

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, nor any of the associated characters or places. All of that stuff belongs to the talented JK Rowling.  
  
A/N: I got this idea from reading a few other fanfics in which the POVs of other characters are used to look in at what 'The Golden Trio' is. Hopefully, I didn't subconsciously steal anything from anyone. I don't think I did, but I haven't read everything out there I can't be perfectly certain. Thanks for your interest, though.  
  
Title: The Promise  
  
When I wake up, I see Harry is back in his bed, sleeping as if he hasn't been gone for two weeks. Ron is sitting on the edge of Harry's bed, watching his friend sleep, and the look of love, almost fatherly love, is something I cannot describe.  
  
My heart clenches a little at the sight. We haven't heard anything about Harry since he disappeared. Just that 'Voldemort had him for a while,' and that they had recovered him eventually. Ron and Hermione were absent from classes almost all of the past two weeks. We know they were in the infirmary almost all of the time, and I can imagine them quite easily sitting beside Harry's bed, just waiting for him to wake up.  
  
Ron hasn't noticed that I am awake yet. He is gazing down at his friend, and I watch him reach a hand out to smooth back Harry's dark hair. In the dim light I can't tell if it is a shadow or a thick scar on Harry's cheek. Neither matters. Harry will pretend it doesn't exist, will go on as usual.  
  
I decide it's time to announce my presence. "Is he okay?" I whisper. Ron looks up, eyes bloodshot and tired.  
  
"He's Harry," Ron tells me, voice scratchy. From crying, I suppose. "He'll be all right. Just not now."  
  
"Are you all right?" I ask. No one ever asks that, but I feel I must. No one ever asks if I am all right—except for Harry, that is—and I know it bothers me. Ron is a mess, and I know Hermione will be as well.  
  
Ron looks at me with haunted eyes. "Am I all right?" he echoes, then laughs once, a weak and tortured sound. "I have to stand by and watch my best friend be torn apart, Neville. I'm nothing in this war, only Harry is. Everything's about Harry..."  
  
Before, before Voldemort made Harry his only goal, that would have been envy in Ron's voice. But now it is just sorrow for a friend that has to go through so much. "You're there for him," I say softly. "That's all you can do."  
  
"It isn't. I can do more. I will do more," Ron says resolutely. He looks up and smiles half-heartedly. "Did you know—Dumbledore's decided that Harry will have to be escorted by a professor at all times. And he's not even allowed to be in a bathroom alone. Hogwarts is no longer safe for him. Harry's connection to Voldemort lets that bastard right through to him." Ron turns to look down at his sleeping friend once more. "He has nothing left, Neville. Nothing."  
  
"He has you and Hermione," I say stoutly. This is a fact that I know for certain. "That's all he wants."  
  
Ron doesn't seem to hear me. He is still staring down at Harry. "The nightmares will start up again in a bit," he says softly. "I put up silencing charms so he doesn't wake anyone else up."  
  
I realize that Ron hasn't slept at all. "You should sleep," I say. "I can watch him for a bit, Ron."  
  
"No!" Ron says quickly. I know I am not part of the 'Golden Trio,' but I am closer than Seamus or Dean. But the trio is just that. A trio. No more. Ron shifts a little, still watching Harry sleep. "No, that's my job. I'll sleep later, when Harry's in his classes. I don't need to go to class anyway."  
  
"Why don't you?" I ask, curious. Ron eyes me sadly.  
  
"Harry's never going to graduate from Hogwarts, Neville," he says softly, tears in his throat. "He knows it. I know it, Hermione knows it. Even Dumbledore knows it, even if he refused to admit it. He's like Harry's grandfather or something—he refuses to see that anything bad will claim his only grandson... Harry probably won't make it through seventh year. What's the point in me going to class, worrying about my future, when my best friend, my brother, will never have one?"  
  
"You don't think—"  
  
"Ask Harry some time," Ron says. "Ask him what he wants to be when he grows up," Ron instructs, voice sharp and bitter. "He won't understand what you mean."  
  
I'm not sure how to respond to that. Is Harry suicidal, or just resigned? He's wiser than Dumbledore even if he's just sixteen, and I don't doubt that he knows how this will all end. He sees things differently than I do, than even Ron and Hermione do, no matter how much they try. I think back to some of Dean's theories about Harry. Perhaps Ron will answer them for me. It's worth a try, I tell myself. I want to be involved, I want to try to help. At the very least, I want to try to understand.  
  
I'm just about to ask something when Harry stirs. His face twists with pain as his hands clench. Ron is in motion almost before it happens, whispering soothing words and clasping Harry's hands with his own. He's like a father, or like how I remember my favorite uncle when I woke up from a nightmare. But my nightmares were about imaginary boogey men and angry professors. Only very rarely do I have a nightmare about my parents...and those are based on stories about them. I was not there when they were tortured into insanity.  
  
Harry's nightmares are always about torture and death. And his are not imaginary. They're real. Ron's said before, when we've woken up to Harry throwing up on the floor, having shoved himself out of the silencing spells around his bed, that Harry sees things that Voldemort does, that he has done. And he sees other things, like Cedric's death and his own tortures.  
  
Perhaps he is suicidal. I know I would be.  
  
Harry tosses a little. I hear him moan—the silencing spells are down now, I know, or else I wouldn't have been able to hear Ron—and then he is silent again. He's biting his lip so tightly it's going to bleed. But then Ron puts a hand on Harry's forehead and the pale teen relaxes again, releasing his lip easily. Ron looks relieved.  
  
Harry suddenly convulses, a shiver running up from his feet through the rest of his body. It happens again, and I realize Ron isn't doing anything to try to stop it. "What is that?" I ask, alarmed.  
  
"Crucio, or perhaps he's still having muscle spasms," Ron says with a shrug. "He feels the spells—Voldemort is working hard to make sure that he will almost always feel them—but after he was taken two weeks ago he's had some muscle problems. You'll see." Harry shudders again, and there's a cold wrap of ice inside of me. The spasms are inhuman, they scream of agonizing pain even if the dark-haired teen does not.  
  
It is too much like my parents, too much like what I imagine it to have looked like, them convulsing on the floor, screaming their pain to the world...until they lost their minds. Perhaps Harry is losing his mind...  
  
"Does he know that you keep watch over him?" I ask. Anything to keep from seeing those spasms. From hearing Harry's soft grunts and groans of pain.  
  
"I always pretend I just woke up, or I slip into bed before morning," Ron says. "He'd feel guilty if he knew."  
  
"Where's Hermione?" I ask. I've been wondering why she's not here as well. Dumbledore gave her access to the boy's dorm, for her to be with Ron and Harry. He's known for some time now that without Ron and Hermione, Harry will just crumble up and blow away. Or perhaps Ron and Hermione would blow away with Harry...I'm not really sure any more.  
  
"Asleep," Ron says. "She hasn't slept in days, and I got Poppy to give her a sleeping potion. She'll never forgive me; she'll just do it to me sometime."  
  
"You should sleep," I say. Harry's stilled again, sweat on his forehead but little else seeming to be wrong. "It isn't healthy to skip it."  
  
"You think being tortured and alone is healthy?" Ron asked, voice raised a little. He's getting very emotional now. "Harry never had anyone to comfort him after nightmares, Neville. He's never had anything."  
  
Maybe Dean was right...but I needed to know. "Was—was Harry abused?" I ask. I feel stupid, and Ron looks a little angry. I think perhaps I should have kept my stupid mouth shut, but then Ron's face breaks into an expression of pure sorrow.  
  
"I don't know," he admits finally. I am the only one he would ever admit that to, I think. I am close enough, trustworthy enough, to confide in. I cherish the position and what I can do with it.  
  
"He would never admit it, but I think he was. If he ever knew anyone thought that..." He didn't need to finish that thought. I know Harry would be devastated, ashamed, embarrassed, if he thought people looked on him with pity. Not that some didn't already, but he couldn't take if all he saw was sympathy. He takes the envy and hate so much better. Like that is his lot in life. Like he thinks he doesn't deserve any better.  
  
We sit in silence, each in our own thoughts. I think perhaps of going back to sleep, of leaving Ron to his vigil, when Harry suddenly cries out and sits up. "Mother?" he said. I almost cry at that one word. My mother was not there for me. But at least I had my grandmother. She loves me. I know that. Harry says that one word with such fear and longing that it's all I can do to keep from going to him.  
  
Ron is already there, leaning down to Harry. "Shh, shh," he says. "It's Ron, Harry."  
  
I watch as Harry blinks a few times—the half-smile on his face fading away as he realizes no mother will ever come for him, just like every other time. No mother will ever come, not until he has died, or, more likely, been murdered. "Ron." Harry rubs his eyes, swallowing a few times. When he speaks again his voice is flat but strong once more. "Do you know where my glasses are?" he asks.  
  
"Here, Harry," Ron says. I watch him carefully hand the pair of wire-frame glasses to his friend, who slips them on with one hand. He sits up further—there is no shadow on his cheek, just a deep and probably painful scar.  
  
"Neville," Harry says suddenly. "I'm sorry if I woke you up."  
  
"You didn't," I say, not too quickly I hope. I don't want him to know I'm lying, but his eyes tell me he's known all along. Those deep green eyes are staring at me...and they're not sparkling anymore, like when he was just a little eleven year old. They're old and dark and weary now, having seen too much blood and death.  
  
Once, I looked into Dumbledore's eyes, when he came to the sixth year boy's dorm just the night of the welcome feast. Ron and Harry were both absent. It was just me, Seamus, and Dean. And he told us what to expect this year, asked us if we would like a separate dorm, because this one would not be peaceful, not with two war veterans, one a tortured hero, living in it. His eyes had not twinkled then, like Harry's did not twinkle now.  
  
I think I understand why Dumbledore's eyes twinkle now. He has had a long life, full of loves and dreams and goals that he has all experienced. Harry's used to shine like that, when he was younger, before Voldemort rose. When he had his own loves and dreams and goals, all just waiting for him to be ready to face them. But Harry knows he will never accomplish any of those goals. Dumbledore already has—he will be satisfied and content the day he dies, but Harry...Harry will be only because he has given up his dreams. And now his eyes will never twinkle again.  
  
Dumbledore's eyes didn't shine that evening with the wisdom and love that I always expect to see. As he spoke to us, his voice was tired and grave. Harry had already been taken twice that summer, and was not at the welcome feast because he was in the infirmary, recovering. Voldemort was toying with Harry, half hoping the boy would turn to him or break for him, but seeming to know already that that would never happen. So he was just having fun, plucking Harry out of Dumbledore's hands and tearing him apart before sending him back to heal before taking him again.  
  
Dumbledore's eyes held only worry and fear, for the boy he loved more than any other. I knew Dumbledore loved Harry, loved to see him happy and see him laugh. He gave points generously just to make Harry laugh—everyone knows that. Except Harry, who has never had any idea that his Headmaster loves him that much. That probably helps explain why Snape is so bitter towards Harry—the boy never seems to realize it when someone does something for him. He would never believe anyone would do anything for him. The idea's ludicrous to him.  
  
Dumbledore is broken by Harry's pain. His eyes still twinkle, but I think it is forced. He has had his dreams, his fulfilling life, but he'd trade it all in an instant for Harry. He'd do anything for Harry now, and that's why he came to us. He did not want us to hurt his surrogate grandchild. He refuses to see Harry suffer any more than he has to, and he came to us to plead for our understanding.  
  
I've never been so afraid as I was that evening, watching those tired blue eyes, so much like the pair of tired green ones that now look upon me. I knew then that this was not a war we could really win. Voldemort would be killed, would be stopped, but Dumbledore isn't going to win. Neither is Harry.  
  
They're so alike...perhaps they are related...not by blood, but by pain and sorrow.  
  
I realize I've been quiet for quite some time. "I was just talking with Ron," I say quickly.  
  
"Both of you should be sleeping," Harry scolds. His voice has emotion, his face as well, but his eyes, his green, green eyes, are dead. "Classes tomorrow."  
  
"Doesn't matter," Ron grouses.  
  
"It does," Harry argues. "Someday you're going to do something great, Ron. You promised me. Be Minister or something, and make everything right. And Hermione'll right beside you, holding your hand...or maybe even running against you." He smiles at his own feeble joke, and Ron blinks, looking surprised. He doesn't seem to realize that Harry left himself out of that future, but I notice. I don't say a thing, though.  
  
I realize that Harry knows, has known, that his two best friends are in love. Ron and Hermione thought he had no clue. "W-what?" Ron says. Harry laughs, a sad, broken sound.  
  
"Don't worry, Ron," he says. "I'm not upset, honest. You two are great with each other, and any idiot can see that you're in love."  
  
"I just thought you hadn't noticed," Ron says lamely. Harry laughs again, a happier sound. For a moment I think there is a sparkle back in his eyes, but I am wrong. It is just a small reflection off his glasses. His eyes are like murky pond-water behind them.  
  
"If there's one thing I do pay attention to, it's my best friends," he says. "I just didn't want you two to avoid being with each other on my account."  
  
"Hermione and I would never abandon you, Harry. We love you," Ron says. He's crying softly now. Harry reaches out and puts his arm around Ron, pulling the taller boy closer. I feel like I'm prying into something intimately private now, but I can't look away. Dean will be sad he missed this chance.  
  
He's always wanted to draw Harry, I know, but has never managed it. Something about Harry makes it impossible, and usually it's the eyes, or the expression on his face. Sure, Dean has made numerous sketches, but they're all hollow and dead.  
  
That makes me think, while waiting for Ron and Harry to finish whispering and hugging. Dean's always saying that every time he thinks he's got a sketch of Harry just right, he finishes it up and then realizes that it's not right once more. That it's a fake, a sham, a hollow shell like all the others. But perhaps they're like that because Dean draws the truth—and the truth is that Harry really is just a shell now.  
  
I hear shifting beside me, a bed over. Dean's bed. Perhaps this moment isn't missed. But in a few hours Dean will show it to me and it will be like the others. I know what it is now, and I will tell him. His pictures are dead because he draws the truth and not the masks.  
  
Harry sits up away from Ron after a bit. "Where is Hermione?" he asks.  
  
"Sleeping," Ron explains. "She was exhausted."  
  
Harry frowns. "You shouldn't keep staying awake for days on end," he scolds. "It's unhealthy."  
  
"That's what Neville said," Ron says with a smirk. A tired, worn smirk that could easily dissolve into sobs.  
  
"He's right," Harry says softly. He looks at his watch. "Now come on, it's almost six-thirty. Let's get some breakfast and then go wake Hermione, okay?"  
  
"Will you be all right?" Ron asks. Harry sighs.  
  
"I'm fine," he responds, pushing himself out of the bed. For a bit, his pajama shirt rides up and I see he has more scars, on his back and sides. Then it falls back into place and Harry grabs his robes and jeans and shirt and stands there. He's going to change in the bathrooms, I realize. He's never done that before. He's never had terrible physical scars to hide before. Hiding the mental scars is second nature for him.  
  
"We'll fire call Professor Snape, Harry, so you can go change," Ron says. Harry nods and goes out the door, leaving it open just a crack so he can be watched.  
  
"Snape's the one that got Harry back," Ron explains, seeing my confused expression. "He brought him back, and he's the only one that Harry will change in front of." Ron sighs, like his heart is broken to little pieces. I know he's broken if he doesn't even hate Professor Snape anymore.  
  
The redhead gets up, stretching his stiff body, and then changes quickly, running his fingers over his untidy hair before yawning and rubbing his eyes. He's a man, I think. No longer a boy, no longer a teen. A worn, thin, almost broken man with too much riding on how long he can keep his best friend together. And I know he doesn't want to do it, to keep Harry moving. He just wants to run away, like we all do, and forget his responsibilities, forget his fears as well as his loves.  
  
I decide to get up as well, and change quickly. Ron glances at me. "I'd like to come, too, if that's okay," I say. "I don't want to be in the way...but I want to help." I don't know if I can, but I think I should try.  
  
"Sure," Ron says. He pushes open the door, and I follow him as he heads down to the common room, where Harry is waiting on a sofa. As I watch, his right shoulder spasms badly and he shudders. "Was it Crucio?" Ron asks as he moves towards the fire.  
  
Harry nods. "Six times," he admits. Ron whips around, alarmed.  
  
"Six?" he demands. Harry nods and looks away. He looks embarrassed, but I don't understand why. But he's always been that way, embarrassed to show pain or discomfort. Nothing will ever change that in him.  
  
"I'll tell Snape," Ron says.  
  
"Thank you," Harry whispers. He glances at me and reddens. "I'm sorry," he says to me. I'm not sure what to do. He looks ashamed. I just don't understand why.  
  
Moments after Ron finishes his fire call the fire flares red and Snape steps out, black robes billowing around himself like usual. He glances around, dark eyes taking in us all. "Potter."  
  
"Thank you, sir," Harry says. He takes the vials that Snape gives him and downs them all, even as another spasm rockets through his body. The spasm quiets though, as Harry finishes the last vial. He stands up then, holding his clothes, and Snape indicates towards the bathrooms with his arm.  
  
"After you, Potter," he snaps. Harry just nods, blushing again, and hurries towards the bathrooms, Snape just behind him. I turn to Ron.  
  
"Hermione won't like it if she misses breakfast with you and Harry," I say. This is what I can do. I can make sure that all three, the 'Golden Trio,' make it. I can make sure they're together to the end, until it is just Ron and Hermione and no Harry. And then I will be there for them at their wedding, when their children arrive, and on as long as I can.  
  
For now, they need to get as much time in with Harry as they can. There is a dark cloud, a deadline, a stopping point, hanging over their heads. They only have so long.  
  
Ron nods, coming to a decision.  
  
"Wait here, Neville. I'll get Hermione," he decides. He's gone in an instant, allowed into the girls dormitory without resistance.  
  
Harry comes back while he is gone, changed into his clothes now. The scar on his cheek looks worse than it did before, an angry red as if just barely healing. Snape is just behind him, but instead of the usual sneer, his face is slack and even more pale than usual. For a moment, I think there are tears in his eyes, but an instant later he is gone anyway, telling Harry he will come back that evening. "Ron went to get Hermione," I say, trying to break the silence. Harry doesn't even jump at my voice, just nods.  
  
"He should sleep. Hermione, too," he says.  
  
"They worry, Harry. We all worry. And they love you," I add. "They love you more than anything, Harry."  
  
"They shouldn't," Harry says. "When I'm gone they'll need each other's love to hold on. They can't love me."  
  
"You can't stop them," I tell him. "That's what family does—they love you no matter what."  
  
"I know," Harry says. He sounds defeated, but I know he isn't. He will kill Voldemort like everyone thinks he will, and he will die. I hope it's not true, but like Ron said, I just can't imagine Harry's future. "Could you promise me something, Neville?" he asks. His voice is hopeful and wavering, like the child that he is not.  
  
"Anything," I say. My throat is closing up, my eyes burning with tears. I feel so helpless, so weak despite my somewhat overweight but much stronger body, while this thin, scarred and weak boy is so powerful.  
  
"Promise me you'll look after them when I'm gone," he says gravely. "Promise me that you'll be there for them and go to their wedding. Tell their children all about their godfather, please." He's holding back tears as well, and I know he is not suicidal. He wants to see the godchildren he will never meet, I know it. I think he knows that he will never have children, that there will never be another Potter, but that isn't what bothers him. It is that he will not see the closest thing he has to family in this world ever again.  
  
"I swear I'll be there," I tell him. There are tears on my face now, falling silently while I can't stop them. "I'll tell your godchildren all about you, Harry."  
  
"The good and the bad?" he asks. I laugh, the same choked and painful sound that Ron so often makes when talking with or about Harry.  
  
"There is no bad, Harry," I tell him as soon as I can speak past the painful knot in my throat. "None at all."  
  
"Of course there is," Harry says. His eyes are on me again, and I feel the ice in my body, twisting, twisting... "There is always bad, Neville. Always."  
  
"Not in you," I say. I believe that will all my heart, and I hear Harry's sigh, knowing that he knows that he can never convince me otherwise. He's probably thinking of when he has lost his temper with me, or the one time he almost cursed me when I startled him, but there was no way I could not have forgiven that. There is no bad in Harry. Or rather, no evil.  
  
"I'll tell them about how you flew that old Ford to school second year," I compromise, searching for a laugh.  
  
Instead, Harry is weeping now. I don't know what to do, but I move closer, I sit down next to him. I'm afraid, so afraid that my touch would shatter this frail yet immensely strong child, but I force myself to touch his arm. "I will never have that again, Neville," he says, tears under control now. "Don't tell Ron or Hermione," he adds. "Don't ever tell them how much it's hurting."  
  
I nod. There is nothing else I can do. I have done what I can, helped how I could. And I think I understand now.  
  
Harry breathes deeply a few times, composing himself, and I move away. It is not my place to comfort him.  
  
"Harry?" It is Hermione's voice. She comes running down the stairs a few moments later, hair all a mess but school clothes on and clean. She laughs that broken, choking laugh, and hugs him tightly, pulling away at his quiet hiss of pain.  
  
"I—I'm going to stay here," I say. "Not as hungry as I thought." I want to help, and I'll do it as best I know how. By letting these three carry on and try to recover. And keeping the promise I made to Harry, the most important promise I will ever make, even above any marriage or family vow. Harry nods over Hermione's shoulder, deep understanding in those incredible eyes. He knows I will keep my word, that I will make Seamus and Dean promise to me what I have promised to him. Together, we will keep Ron and Hermione together despite what they will lose.  
  
Before they can protest, I'm up the stairs and back in the dorm. They will go on to breakfast, discussing what will happen next, what Dumbledore had planned and discovered. And like always it will end in blood, death, and more nightmares for Harry.  
  
If he survives.  
  
"I tried again," Dean says. He usually shows Seamus his sketches first, but I am awake and Seamus is not. I move over to him as he sits up in bed and shows me his sketchbook. The picture is of Ron and Harry, holding on tightly to each other. Ron is perfect, the picture of fatherly love and protective of his child, those eyes burning with fierce love, while Harry's face is just as visible, cheek tight against Ron's shoulder. But those eyes are dead. I see it now. "The others are all like that..." Dean whispers. "The eyes..."  
  
He opens to the first sketch of Harry he ever did...and the eyes are it. They are the answer. They're deep and wise and intelligent...but dead. That is why they are different than Dumbledore's eyes, which are those of an old man that has seen more than a century pass. Harry has had a bit more than fifteen years.  
  
They're deep pools of drowned love and life. Dean flips through, stopping at each picture only a moment until he ends with the last. "The eyes give him away," I whisper.  
  
"They always have," Dean says. "I just didn't want to believe it," he says. There is a sob in his voice. "I don't want him to die."  
  
"Me neither," I say. I sit beside him and hug him tightly. The Promise will come later. For now I just hold on. "Me neither."  
  
Harry will not live, I know it now. His eyes have betrayed him—he is already dead.  
  
A/N: There will be sequels to this, if I can make them fit right. The next part of this is almost done. I just need to rake through it again and tweak a few things. Should be up soon, though. –Miss Laine 


	2. Ron's Interlude

Disclaimer: No, don't own anything Harry Potter related. None of it.  
  
A/N: This is a point of view that needed to be done next. I'm going to try to make it sort of a pattern...one outside perspective, one inside. I have an idea of who I'm going to do the POV from next, but we'll see how it works out. This entire thing struck me as a bolt of inspiration sometime yesterday, and I wrote it between classes today. It's not the best, but I kinda think it fits.  
  
Ron's Interlude  
  
I hate Harry. I hate him so much. I hate everything about him and everything he does to me. I hate Harry. Hate him, hate him, hate...  
  
Because he's the only thing that can make me afraid, that can make my heart burn with worry and fear. Only Harry.  
  
I never used to be afraid.  
  
Okay, I admit that I was panicked over the huge acromantulas, and I was scared to death when we were in the department of mysteries...but the fear was for myself. Was I going to get eaten alive? Was I going to be killed by a death eater? What if I ran away? What if I got someone hurt?  
  
Stupid, childish fears that you can 'face down' and all that.  
  
But this cannot be overcome. It cannot be escaped.  
  
I watch Harry sleep and know that one of these days I will never see him again. Someday soon, probably.  
  
His is so frail in the moonlight, his thin shoulders peaking just above his duvet. There are scars on those shoulders, terrible white and red lines that criss-cross his body like a terrible tattoo.  
  
He is ashamed of them, although he never says a word about them or even acknowledges their existence. I can see it in the way he blushes when someone stares at the scars on his face, and I know it because he never changes in front of anyone but Snape.  
  
Because Snape gave him some of those scars. I suppose Harry could tell you just which ones Snape cut into him, could point them out, could tell you just when and how much each hurt...but he never would. He would say he didn't remember, or that those healed. That they did not leave scars on his thin, weak body.  
  
He would do it to save Snape the guilt. I feel as if I should hate Snape for that...but I cannot. I just cannot get up the willpower to hate Snape for it.  
  
I cannot seem to even get up the urge to hate Snape in classes anymore. Sixth-year, NEWT-level potions that Harry will never have use for. But every time Snape says something cruel, Harry gets this look...and I cannot find my sour retort. The words leave me.  
  
I think in those moments Harry remembers whatever Snape did to him. Oh, I know Snape had no choice, not really...everyone knows Voldemort doesn't want Harry dead, not now, but he sure as hell wants him suffering, breaking, crumbling...and Snape is too important to risk.  
  
But Harry does not crumble. He just relives each and every torture at Snape's hands when he hears the man's voice. At the first insult, Harry will tremble, the second he will blink rapidly a few times...on and on until it is no longer Harry seated next to me but a vacant shell of a teen, watching something happening a few feet and a few weeks before.  
  
I know Snape has to do it. He has to insult and deride Harry, or people would get suspicious. I probably will always hate him for it...even if I cannot seem to show it anymore.  
  
I know Snape suffers under it. Every morning and evening he appears and discretely escorts Harry to the bathrooms to change. Usually, Harry's with Remus or one of his other favored professors, but for this one thing, he only lets Snape be with him.  
  
And Snape comes back paler than even his ghastly shade, his hands shaking sometimes. He sees the scars and, like Harry, knows which ones he caused. Probably sees them every time...he probably wants to apologize just as badly as Harry wants, needs, to tell the man that he is forgiven, that all is forgiven in the end.  
  
Harry is like that. That's how I explain it, how Hermione and I explain it. Harry is like that. Like that.  
  
Forgiving, kind, intelligent, wise, loving, a little clumsy, sometimes snappish, apologetic, dangerous, every so often short of temper, somber...he is Harry. I wish I could have his resilience sometimes, but my fear is that his strength comes from his knowledge that he doesn't have to be strong for much longer.  
  
I don't have that luxury, if you can call it that. I have to be strong for a long time. For my family, for Hermione...but not for the entire wizarding world, like Harry. So I don't know what I want. I just wish that everything did not wear at me, like it does not seem to wear at Harry.  
  
Harry is my best friend. He is always there for me, and I always feel guilty when, even now, I go to him with my troubles. As if he doesn't have his own. But that's how he makes it seem...as if his life is simple, easy, fun...short. Very short with a painful ending.  
  
He shudders in his sleep while I watch. I always watch...it is the least I can do. There is a permanent twitch in his left shoulder now, from some rather creative spell that damaged the nerves so badly that Pomfrey cannot repair them. I long to be able to fix it, to make it normal again, but I cannot.  
  
Harry sleeps on, enjoying a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.  
  
***************  
  
I watch Harry return from dressing. Snape glares around and then leaves. The greasy potions master looks worn out...tired...but I don't care about that.  
  
I am already monitoring Harry. He seems fine this morning, better than some mornings. He is walking steadily, no limp or twitch obvious, and he even smiles when I stand up. "Got a few hours of sleep," he says. He yawns, betraying how tired he still is.  
  
I bite my cheek a moment to suppress my own yawn and smile back. "Good," I say. "You can probably catch another hour in Binn's class," I tell him. He laughs, but looks away as he does so.  
  
He doesn't want me to look him in the eyes and see that he is lying. He is not happy, he is not amused. He is tired.  
  
And yet he still tries so hard. I don't get it. I couldn't do it. Not knowing what Harry seems to know...  
  
He sees something and his smile falters. "Ron? Are you all right?" he asks. Worried. About me. When he is the one that will be dead.  
  
I smile, but I'm sure he knows that it is false. "Fine, just fine," I assure him. He watches me silently, and I feel myself wanting to hide from his somber green gaze. "I'm fine, Harry," I tell him.  
  
"It's going to be all right in the end, Ron," he says, voice so quiet that I almost miss his words.  
  
It's going to be all right in the end. In the end... What he's saying finally pushes through my brain.  
  
"No it won't," I say back. "It won't be all right, Harry. How can you say that?"  
  
Harry smiles. He thinks Hermione and I can't see how much he suffers, alone despite how much we are there for him...but his eyes betray him. When they are not dead empty green pools, they show his pain, betray his hurt. He knows nothing will be right...but he will not admit that. "Someday it will be all right, Ron. Ten, twenty years from now when you have kids and they're all growing up and going to Hogwarts and getting into trouble and making you proud, it will be all right."  
  
"No," I say. It can't ever be right again. No. Never.  
  
"It's not your fault if you're happy, Ron," Harry says levelly. "I'd hate it if you weren't happy."  
  
"You talk like you're already dead," I say brutally. I regret it in an instant, but the hurt flashes across Harry's face so fast I cannot undo it.  
  
And then there is something else on his face. And I fear.  
  
Because he is not going to argue against what I said. Because...because he is already dead... "I don't want to leave, Ron," he says finally. "I want to be there."  
  
"Then be there!" I almost shout. My emotions are running unchecked now, all that I have kept pent up struggling to become known. "We can leave! Run away, go somewhere, hide..."  
  
"You know I can't do that," Harry says in that oh-so knowing voice. Like it does not matter to him. Like it is easy to choose to stay.  
  
"Why not?" I ask. "Why?"  
  
"Because I love you, Ron. Because I love Hermione, and Remus, and Dumbledore, and everyone else that has ever shown me an ounce of compassion. How could I just leave?" he asks me. I try to think of an answer, all of my mental arguments falling flat on their noses.  
  
He nods, seeing that I cannot argue with him. "I would not have made it this far without you, Ron. You know that. Hermione and you are what I look forward to each and every day. I don't give that up lightly."  
  
"You shouldn't have to give anything up!" I protest. Harry sighs, looking away again.  
  
"It's too late to make that choice, Ron. That was taken away from me. But I can stop it from happening to anyone else." He sighs again, sounding so much like Albus.  
  
"What am I supposed to do?" I ask. It's what I always ask myself.  
  
"Everything and nothing, Ron, everything and nothing," he tells me with a sudden grin.  
  
****************  
  
I look up to Harry's courage and strength. Someday, I want to have that.  
  
But for now I have him, my best friend, my closest confidant.  
  
He makes me stronger. He forces me to rise to the occasion, to face my fears and push past them. The only thing that is left is my fear for him. I don't want to lose him.  
  
Sometimes, I find myself doing things I would never have done before...helping Slytherin first years that are lost, taking care of anyone who needs it in some of the situations that tend to arise in Hogwarts, doing homework...my mother, over the summer, told me I had grown up.  
  
She knows why...my whole family does. They treat me a little differently than they used to. I am not little Ron anymore. I am Ronald Weasley, my own person.  
  
Harry did that to me...and his reward is that he will never see the full results of his influence. He will not get to see the results of any of his efforts. He will never be able to see how something he has done has changed things...because the things he will do, the things he has done, will ultimately lead to his death...  
  
I love Harry. I love him so much. I love everything about him and everything he does to me. I love Harry. Love him, love him, love...  
  
A/N: Well, that's how it goes. I wanted it to be a little more of Ron getting support from Harry, even though Harry's the one who's 'doomed,' but this is where Ron's thoughts led me. Maybe Hermione will manage something constructive...who knows. Just have to see where this meanders off to. –Miss Laine 


	3. Absolution of a Murderer

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter nor any of JK Rowling's creations.  
  
A/N: Here is the next part. Any comments about who else should be involved in this piece would be welcome. Be warned that this piece will end or at least peter off...I am working on something much larger and less depressing right now as well. I just write this late at night when I should be doing chem homework. Because this isn't quite as depressing as chem homework.  
  
Title: Absolution of a Murderer  
  
There is a white line running from the edge of his left hip down to his knee. It is perfectly straight, a white stripe that looks almost as if it had been drawn upon his body. It is not ugly. Just out of place on the long, thin, white limb. An odd mark on an otherwise unscarred area.  
  
He does not acknowledge that it exists. He never touches it, never looks at it, never mentions it. I probably would not either. It is just one of many such lines, all over his thin, weak, pale body.  
  
He always changes fast. Steps out of his clothes and into his pajamas, or the other way around. He keeps his head down. He won't look at me when he changes. I can see that he blushes red, even as he strips down and moves as quickly as he can. He rarely showers—he prefers just to use a damp rag and keep on at least some clothing.  
  
He is afraid of me. He trembles at my voice and cries out if I startle him. He flushes when he knows I am looking at the white line on his leg. Or the one on his chest, or the rather ugly, thick, crooked red mark on his back. The one that has not faded in the least.  
  
Not that he cares about the lines, the scars. I understand that.  
  
At first I thought his embarrassment when he changed and I kept guard came from having the scars marring his young body. But obviously the presence of them does not bother him—there is a new one, on his cheek, that does not make him blush red and turn away.  
  
It is because I made the scars that I stare at. The long white line, the short white line, the ragged red smear. Because he knows that I know that those are my marks on his body, however unwilling. I was the one to put them there.  
  
He knows I had to. He knows that if the Dark—if Tom—had any inkling that I was a spy, I would be tortured and killed. Voldemort thinks that Harry does not know who I am, when I torture him. I am allowed to wear my mask to preserve my anonymity, and Harry never once acts as if he knows me.  
  
If he did, I would probably be killed. He refused to let that happen. He practically demands that I participate in his inevitable tortures. And then never once lets on that he knows who his tormentor is. He told me if I did not willingly do it, he would attack me specifically and give me no choice.  
  
Despite his words then, he fears me now. He fears what I did to him, what I will probably do to him again. I know that the curses I used were not nice. They were some of the worst I know.  
  
I let my anger at the stupid brat's shouted insults get the better of me. I hated him in those moments, as he glared at me while lying on his stomach in the circle of death eaters. Smeared in his own blood, clothes tattered and almost nonexistent.  
  
I hate him still. I cannot give up that hate. Because if I do, I am afraid I will find that I love him. Or worse, respect him.  
  
***************  
  
He is in the shower now, for only the second time this week. He does not like to go in there, because I am required to stay just by the door of the stall, eyes on him for the first warnings of a kidnapping.  
  
Voldemort is able to take Harry at any time, if there is no one there to prevent it. He just has to reach out through their shared connection and give a hard tug. But if someone performs a strong, but unfortunately only temporary, anchoring spell, Harry can be kept in place. It takes Voldemort a day, approximately, to again have the strength to try for Harry.  
  
I stay leaning against the shower stall's door, wand in hand and ready to use at the slightest hint of danger. Harry stays turned away from me, thin scarred back mocking me. He is looking ill, worse than ever now.  
  
His failure at Occlumency, though I will never admit it, was never really his fault. How can you learn to block something that is already inside you? It is like Voldemort has a key to Harry's mind, one that the boy cannot block against. He can keep anyone else out now, even Dumbledore. But when he sets up his shields against Voldemort, the Dark Lord just slips around them, unlocks them with his key.  
  
And so Harry looks ill because he is ill. He sleeps little or none at all, is plagued by Voldemort-induced dreams, and throws up his food at regular intervals.  
  
And when he showers, I worry. Because it is not a sign that he is physically dirty. The way that he scrubs, fingers digging at his skin and at the scars, tells me that he is trying to scrub away something else. Something that only he can see.  
  
I imagine that Potter is slightly insane. How could he not be? He has been subjected to tortures far worse than anything I have ever seen, and he goes through classes with an aura of death about him. He knows he is going to die, and very much looks the part.  
  
He is scrubbing hard at the red weal on his back, the one I put on his body. His fingers keep raking it, dragging deep red tracks across it, as if he could peel it away. I don't like to watch, I don't want to watch, but I cannot look away. He would not be frantically scratching at it if I had not put it there in the first place.  
  
I think he may be crying now. He does that, towards the ends of these showers. He breaks down, every single time. This is something he does not want anyone to see—and to him, I am about nothing. I am unimportant. I do not count.  
  
(Or perhaps it is because I count. Because I know the truth, he can trust me with his deep secrets. His weaknesses.)  
  
His shoulders shake. He has his arms resting against the corner of the shower, his back under the spray. In a few moments, he will stop and straighten up. He will turn off the water and take his towel and dry off and dress, all without ever glancing my way.  
  
He should not have this burden, I tell myself. An idiotic brat with a death wish is all that it has created. Prophecies are just that—stupid vague claims at what the future will be. They have led this stupid, arrogant brat to this point, where he somehow thinks that he will be the deciding factor in this war. Just what does he think he can accomplish that the rest of us cannot?  
  
"I can't do anything," he says. I start, realizing I had spoken my last thought out loud. "I'm a stupid, stupid boy who thinks if he tries really hard, he might just be of help."  
  
He's watching me as he speaks, eyes actually on me. He's wrapped the towel around his waist and is fumbling for his boxers. "You're going to end up getting yourself killed, with nothing to show for it," I say coldly. Someone has to tell the boy. Someone has to make sure he understands.  
  
(Perhaps he already knows. Perhaps I am the one that needs told.)  
  
But Harry just breathes out slowly and pulls the towel away from his body, leaving himself standing there in just a pair of faded, too-stretched boxers. "I know that, Professor," he says wearily.  
  
I am slightly surprised, even if I don't show it. I expect the boy to insist he'll be fine, that he'll make it through this. Perhaps he is a little smarter than I give him credit for. "Voldemort is much stronger and much more experienced in battling than you are," I tell him. He nods.  
  
"But I can't run away. There is nowhere to run. He dogs my every step. I did not ask him to take me and torture my body, tear it to pieces and send it back. Over and over, until only my soul is left alive?"  
  
His voice chills me. Is his soul alive, I wonder? It sounds as dead as his body looks. "Albus will defeat Voldemort," I say. "It should not be your concern."  
  
(But it is his. Only his...)  
  
Harry watches me, sad eyes on me for long silent moments. Then he turns to his clothes and starts to dress. "I've never mentioned the scars," he says, pulling on his pants. "I never say a word about them."  
  
Here it comes, I think. He's going to blame me for them, tell me that if I didn't think he was important, I would have not cursed him like I did.  
  
Because that is what it symbolizes. I am too important, but as well he is too important to risk death. Torture prolongs the possibility of death, and has kept us both alive. I, as the giver, and he as the receiver.  
  
"I've never known how to mention it," Harry goes on. "But I have to...just in case...but I wanted to tell you it is forgiven."  
  
"What??" I say. He has thrown me on my back, so to speak. I have no idea if he's still sane or not.  
  
"All is forgiven in the end, Professor," he tells me. "Please, believe me."  
  
He has hit upon my fear.  
  
(All is forgiven. Even by those wide blue eyes...those sweet eyes...they forgave in the end...how could he know? How could he know!)  
  
I don't want to admit it, but he has found what I fear most and said it out loud. I know I can never pay for all that I have done in my life, all the hurt and pain and death that I have caused, but I have worked hard to eat away at that debt, clawing a small hole out of the side of a cliff.  
  
"You don't know what you're talking about," I tell him sharply. He pauses, halfway through pulling his shirt on, and stares at me again. Slowly, he pulls it on the rest of the way, covering the scars. Except the ones on his neck and cheek, which stand out badly against his flesh.  
  
"I think I might, Professor," he says patiently. "I have been close to death many times...I have begged for it, wished for it, pleaded...but in the end I come back, and a few months later it all repeats..." He trails off, and starts rubbing the nasty scar on his cheek with one hand, while the other fiddles with the edge of his sleeve. "It is a close thing, there on the edge, sir. You forgive everything when you die."  
  
"You have not died," I say. "Unless I am speaking with a ghost."  
  
"Perhaps you are," he says softly. He is pushing his feet into his shoes now, unwilling to sit down to put them on properly. "I think I died long ago. When I realized that I wasn't going to have a future here."  
  
"You should be talking with Albus," I tell him. The boy is clearly suicidal. "Or Professor Lupin."  
  
"They do not understand...and I could not worry them like that," Harry tells me. "But you have been there. And you have...and I have forgiven..."  
  
"Do you think I care for your forgiveness?" I ask him sharply. He smiles, an odd, eerie, understand expression that I have seen only on Albus's face before now.  
  
"I think you do, Professor," he tells me. "I think you pray for it every night. In the end, it's forgiven."  
  
(...pray that I find peace...that I am forgiven my crimes...)  
  
"Classes are beginning soon," I tell him. He is beginning to worry me a rather lot. His words are making no sense. "You need to go to breakfast."  
  
"Nah," he says, amazingly willing to change conversations. "I'll eat something at lunch."  
  
I don't argue. He wouldn't have kept it down anyway.  
  
*************************  
  
I do not see him again until Potions. He is taking NEWT level sixth year potions, though he and I both know it really is a waste of his time. Of my time, as well. There are much more important things for us to be doing, for all of the Order to be doing, but we are forced to keep up our façade.  
  
Just in case spies are watching. Other than myself, of course.  
  
He sits at his desk, to the left of his two best friends. Even I have to admit that Mr. Weasley has matured. He does not lose his temper anymore. Actually, he does not do much of anything anymore except comfort Ms. Granger, who is surely his girlfriend, and look after Potter. Potter, who smiles and laughs and looks so alive...a complete change from his mornings, evenings, and nights.  
  
Draco Malfoy is still at Hogwarts. Somehow, I had assumed that he would leave when his father was imprisoned and then join the Death Eater ranks. But he has not. He is here, still tormenting Potter, still acting like a spoilt prince.  
  
Even as I watch, he says something to Potter, who, by Draco's expression, should be looking angry about now. But instead he laughs and says something that makes Draco flush. I wonder what it was. I could use it on Lucius next time I see him, if it is any good.  
  
Everyone is working on their potions, some more diligently than others. I do not comment on Weasley and Granger's potions anymore—they are either done perfectly, or not at all. When they are not done, I know that they were up all the night before with Potter, keeping him from dying in his sleep.  
  
Albus has told me very pointedly that if I mention it once, or take a single point at all, he will not hesitate to take away my position and confine me to the dungeons.  
  
Because he loves the brat.  
  
(No. Because he loves the boy, the selfless, strong, tired, beaten boy, the boy that has given everything to him for the Cause...)  
  
Today is a better day. The three chat and work on their potions separately, stirring and mixing and sniffing and comparing notes amongst themselves. No one else from Gryffindor speaks with them. They are their own world, their own house, their own group.  
  
I think about what Harry said, while I swoop about the class, preying on innocent students. I will never admit it, never to him, but I do pray for forgiveness, that I might die knowing that I am forgiven my terrible sins.  
  
All is forgiven in the end. He, he who should never have to, has forgiven the pains I have given him, the blood that I have brought from his body.  
  
All is forgiven.  
  
Perhaps I can find absolution. Perhaps even I can die forgiven.  
  
******************  
  
A/N: Well, Snape is kinda melancholy in this. I at first planned to do Draco Malfoy next, but then I was working my longer HP piece and I started thinking about Snape in this piece. Especially since he's such a bast—er—jerk in the other. Read it. You'll see why. But anyway, the point is that Draco will make an appearance later, when he really does have something to say that's worth putting down. It'll come to me, don't worry. Any comments would be great, and I live off of reviews right now. So please, review this, and if you have time try reading some of my other HP stuff. I think it's better than its summaries make it out to be. –Miss Laine  
  
Next: Section 4: Son – no I won't give you any hints! 


	4. Making and Keeping a Promise

A/N:  I have changed the title of this to Promises instead of 'Watching.'  Though both fit, I am trying to draw a few more readers.  It's been hard for me to make eye-catching summaries, so if anyone has a better summary of this story, please tell me.  I'd be grateful forever.

I mainly write because I like to write.  But reviews are a great encouragement.  I'm completely open to suggestions, criticism, or any other comments.  I read every review I get (Which isn't hard, considering how few I get) and I will try to respond to them as best I can.  I'm still new at this whole Fanfic thing, remember?  --Miss Laine

*******************

Title:  Making and Keeping a Promise

*******************

Harry has come back again.  He is bloodied, starved, beaten, scarred, and only half-conscious.  I don't know what to do for him, though I say that I will figure something out.  I don't know what they would do if they knew that I, me, did not know what to do.

Remus carries the poor boy to the infirmary.  Harry just appeared in the middle of my office, courtesy of Voldemort's special 'connection' to Harry, and Remus was on him in an instant, gathering the broken body up into his trembling arms.  It is not so long since the last full moon…

Poppy works on Harry like a machine.  Her face is calm and passive.  She just nods, indicating Harry's 'favorite' bed, and Remus places his small burden down on the crisp white sheets.

They will not stay white.  They will be bloodstained in moments…Poppy never cleans the sheets that Harry's blood has stained.  She destroys them with fire, because the stains never really do come clean.

Nor do the stains on my hands.  Of course, only I seem to see them, but I know that they are there.  I can _feel _them.  Harry would deny their existence.  He often tells me that he understands.  He forgives me my shortcomings, my failings.  My unerring inability to keep him safe.  His words to me are full of understanding and forgiveness.

Especially when he first wakes up.

He is waking now, even though Poppy has pushed a sleeping potion down the boy's unresisting throat.  There must be other potions in his system…potions that would force him to remain awake through his torture…

His eyes snap open, emerald green.  His breathing accelerates.  His body tenses.  His is in a panic.  

The eyes are what I focus on.  They dart around, searching across the ceiling.  I can see it in his eyes that he is confused.  Trying to figure out where he is.  "You are home, Harry," Remus says softly.

Harry's eyes stop their frantic searching.  His breathing slows a little.  Poppy brushes his blood-matted hair out of his face and gently smoothes a cooling lotion onto the gashes on his face.  Hopefully, they will not scar…like the thick line on his cheek.  That wound was one of the worst Harry has ever returned to us with.  It was deep and old and ragged, and even Poppy with all her skill could not heal it completely.

Harry told us that he didn't mind.  It would make people stop staring at his forehead.  Of course, they did not…

"Home," he croaks.  

"Yes, Harry," Remus says softly.  "I'm so sorry…"

"Not your fault," Harry whispers, almost too quiet to be heard.  "Not your fault."

"But, Harry—" Remus objects, voice broken and weak.

He feels guilty.  He is guilty.  

Harry will never admit that though.

Remus was distracted.  For just a few moments.  And in those moments Voldemort chose to react.  He was already nestled in Harry's mind that day, watching and waiting for a moment when he could do something.  I think he puts his efforts into riding in Harry's mind when he has nothing else he wants to do.  When his sadistic nature is demanding relief.  

Remus looked away for just a few moments.  Two Hufflepuffs were fighting with a Gryffindor in the hall.  

Voldemort noticed.  He pulled.  Harry apparated out of Hogwarts.  Gone.

And now Remus is guilty.  It was his job to watch Harry when it happened.  But he did not see, did not turn in time.  Harry couldn't say a word.  The pull of Voldemort paralyzes him.  He cannot escape it.  Only others can free him.

And they have let him down.  Over and over and over…

But he will never tell them that.  Us that.  He believes that they, that we, should not have this responsibility to him.  He does not understand why we feel we must protect him so ferociously.  He supposes it is because we need him to defeat Voldemort.

But he is wrong.  It is because we love him.

**************

He is staring up at the ceiling now.  Poppy is working on his chest.  His ribs are broken, mangled.  There are gashes upon gashes, scars forming over scars.  Poppy does what she can for those, but they are mostly from curses.  Voldemort's curses.  They are difficult to heal.

Harry makes no sound.  I know he is in pain.  I can see it in his eyes…

And yet he does not whimper or cry out…because this is nothing.  Nothing compared to the torture of knowing that he will die.  I do not know what to say to that.

***************

A few weeks before, he was in my office, talking to me after he recovered from his most recent 'abduction.'  He seemed fine, with a little color actually in his cheeks.  He did not look like the dead boy that now lies on the red-stained linens.  

He told me very calmly about exactly what happened to him…except he did not mention what the death eaters did to him.  Confused?  Perhaps I am explaining it wrong: he told me what Voldemort said to his followers, what they said to each other…but he would not tell me what they said to him.  Or what he said to them…because I know he speaks out every time.  Severus tells me…he tells me what a stupid fool that boy is, what an arrogant prat Potter is.

And yet when he says these things he does not have any malice in his voice.  Only a broken sadness…

Harry never acts as if anything happens during his abductions, but his body's condition every time he returns betrays him.  The least he can do, he must feel, is not tell us just how much pain he is put through.

But he does not need to tell me that.  Severus does that for me…

I am getting off topic…the ramblings of an old man are not important, but I will try to keep them to the point…

Harry is old, older than I.  He would probably give me his false laugh if I said as much, but it is true.  His eyes…they have seen too much, his heart has carried too much…and he is too familiar with death…

I never know what to say to him.  Not any more.  Not since Sirius Black was killed, and Harry's connection to Voldemort snapped taut.  No skill in Occlumency could save him now.  Voldemort tears long claws through any defense Harry puts up with startling ease.

It is painful for Harry when Voldemort does this, when he rakes his long fingers through Harry's mind for answers to his questions.  I want to do something so badly at those times…but there is nothing that can be done.  We cannot find Voldemort, Harry cannot figure out where he is…Severus cannot even figure it out.  It is too well-disguised and warded.  The end will come when Voldemort is drawn out…but for now he is content to play with his toy.  Harry.

*******************

"I want to go to classes."  Harry sits in his hospital bed, pale, weak, thin…but determined.  His arms are folded across his chest, and he is frowning slightly.

"Harry, you're still weak," Remus tells him gently.  "A few more days."

"I've been in here as long as I was there," Harry grumbles.  "I need to get out of here."

"Harry, please," Remus pleads.  I step forward.

"Perhaps you should listen to Remus," I suggest.  I do not want to see Harry out there, weak, surrounding by fans judging him, enemies plotting his death…  More than anything at all, I want to protect him.  To shelter him here because I cannot in any other way.

Harry gazes at me.  He does not glare when he is angry any more.  He does not do more than frown, just a little, and fold his arms.  If he does any more, then he is enraged beyond anything imaginable.  "I think perhaps I should listen to myself," he says.  "I want to go to classes.  Like everyone else."

"You're too weak to do much spell-work," I point out as kindly as I can.  "A few more days, Harry.  Just a few."

"No."

He is still stubborn.  I have it on good authority from Severus that Harry has yet to divulge a single word of information to Voldemort during his torture.  He cannot stop Voldemort from raking through his mind, but he will not give up a single word willingly.  It irks Voldemort, it seems.  He does not like to look ineffectual in front of his death eaters.  It also makes Harry's torture worse…

"Ron and Hermione have been worried," I say.  It is time to be a little less kind.  Harry is not ready to return to classes.  He is not ready to face so many people…

"Don't use them against me," Harry says softly.  I sometimes forget that he almost always sees through my manipulations now.  He is much too wise for a sixteen year old boy.  "They won't be diverted from their worrying.  Whether I am here or in class does not matter to them."

"I—Harry," I say.  I feel awkward, having troubling finding the words I need to make him understand how much we fear for him.  He would never believe that we love him.  He sees himself as our pawn, our willing sacrifice.  If only he could understand…

That is the one thing he seems unable to understand, though.  For all his early wisdom and his deep understandings of other, more complicated, issues, he still fails to understand just why we worry about him so much.  He thinks our concern is based upon something that I doubt any of us still care about.  I do not care what any prophecy has said.  I care about Harry.  We all care about Harry.

A dark-haired boy, thin, weak, dying…alone in the world.  I do my best to ease his loneliness, but there is only so much comfort he can find from a century and a half old headmaster.  I am too removed from his perspective.  I have more than a century of experiences behind me.  He has about sixteen years.  Sixteen short years…

"You may go to class," I concede.  Harry nods.  He swings his legs off the bed.  There is a long, jagged red scar down his left calf.  Poppy has told me that it was probably caused by a blunt dagger or some curse that produces that effect.  Agonizingly painful, taking forever to tear through tissue and tendon and muscle… 

But Harry stands on the leg, stands firm on both legs, feet underneath him.  He seems strong…so strong…

Remus goes to Harry's side as he falters ever so slightly.  He does not support Harry's weight—the first time Remus did that Harry very politely told him to back off.  If Harry says something as politely as he said that, it means he's angry.  Usually at himself.  Or Voldemort.  Never anyone else…

"I will be in my office, Harry, if you need anything, anything at all," I say weakly.  He knows how hard I am working to find a better solution to his unique situation.  I know how much it hurts him to be followed all day long by a professor.  So far, I have only been able to place enough protection charms on his bed.  They are difficult to maintain, must be renewed every day, and are unpredictable at times.  I have to share the responsibility of casting them with numerous other Order members in order to avoid killing myself maintaining them…but I would maintain them even at the cost of my life…  Though Harry would immediately assume that my death was caused by him…

I have not told him how exhausting and difficult the wards are.   That is not important to me.  They keep him out of Voldemort's reach when he is asleep.  That is what is important.  …But I know that Remus still watches him.  We are not certain how long these wards will last…Voldemort is determined to continue to have free access to Harry at all times.  

***********************

Harry does not know that after he is 'returned,' I watch him.  I do not go straight to my office or to breakfast or to wherever I'm needed.  

He usually makes it to the Great Hall in time for breakfast.  Smiling and waving at his friends, putting a great effort into the small bounce in his step.

They know it is a show as much as I do.  For his enemies.  For the blonde-haired teen at the Slytherin table, watching with narrowed, angry eyes.  For the professors, for his fans.  Everyone's mood depends on him.  When he is weak, they are restless, frightened.  When he smiles and laughs, they rejoice.  Because their hero is well, they are not worried.

Yet they make no move to aid him.  Instead, he is aided by just a very few.  His two friends, his anchors.  The other boys of his year try to help as well, but it is hard to get close…

I stay out of sight while he sits with them, pretending to eat and chatting about nonsense.  Every now and then his eyes dart around.  Every now and then his eyes rest on the blonde teen.  Judging the other boy's mood.  Harry tells me that young Mr. Malfoy may be close to choosing his path…no one else is willing to take the risk with the teen.  Only for Harry is it not too dangerous…

Other times, his eyes rest on Severus, up at the head table.  Severus…he is another subject entirely…

Most often though, and most painful for me to see, is the times when Harry's eyes rest on Ms. Weasley.  He never lingers for long, his green eyes going over her face frantically for a few moments before moving on.  I fear that he is in love with her, or thinks that he might be.

After his short, disastrous, and terrible attempt at a relationship with Ms. Chang of Ravenclaw, Harry has refused all advances.  Girls throwing themselves at him should be a good thing at his age…any other boy would feel happy to know they were so desired.  But for Harry it is just a count of all the hearts he could break.  He distances himself from all of the girls here, even Ms. Weasley, though I know that he wishes he could at least be her friend.

But I know why he does not speak with her in more than a few clipped sentences a week.  He does not want to hurt her.  He does not want to see her alone and broken…because she does not have someone else if Harry dies.  Harry could correct me there.  '_When I die,' _he would say.  He is so certain of that…

He has assured me that Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger will be fine after he is gone…they have each other now, and I see it in how they hold hands at the table, their mutual worry for Harry making their love for each other that much stronger…

No, Harry will never tell Ms. Weasley how he feels.  He will never hold her hand or ask her to go with him to Hogsmeade, even if he were allowed.  He is too wise…he knows that it would do to her…he is certain that it is better for her to never have him, for him to never have her…  He loves her so much that he is tearing himself apart for her.  She will never know…

And it seems he is right, though it tears him apart to see her with other boys her age, going on dates, laughing with them, kissing them…  Though he does not see me, I have seen him, hidden under his invisibility cloak, watching…

He watches her.  Not in any sort of evil-intentions manner, but he watches all the same.  At meals, he watches her eating, smiling, laughing…things he does not do any more.  In the halls, if he sees her he will pause for a brief moment…longing in his eyes, deep, painful longing…

I never watch for long.  I could not take it, seeing so much pain and unfair suffering all day…

**************************

In my office I sit at my desk, poring over old volumes, looking for anything that will help.  I have already exhausted all resources I have that could find Voldemort.  If I could get to him, I would not tell Harry…either I would die or Voldemort would…but I will not let Harry face his death any sooner than can be avoided.  

I find nothing in my books, though.  Nothing in the books that Severus has stolen for me…nor any of the others that I have 'borrowed' from many establishments.  

One spell I have found…Severing the connection would kill Voldemort…

But it would kill Harry.  I have not told him about this…the complicated ancient spell that I found that would do this.  

Because he would demand that we use it before another dies.  He would demand that I do it or he would find someone who would.  He'd do it himself if I gave him access to the book…

As it is, I keep it locked away and never speak of it…a solution in which Harry dies is not a solution to me.  Even Severus would agree to that, after being given a few days to come around…

Severus is much different since the start of last summer, when the abductions began.  He is not so sour or bitter…he is depressed instead.  I know why…he is the one that tells me what Harry does not.  He tells me just what was done at the death eater meetings where Harry is the 'guest of honor.'  It is gruesome.  What is more gruesome is that Severus is forced to participate.

He tells me that Harry shouts out rather creative insults to Voldemort, even as he writhes in pain…rather odd, spur-of-the moment comments about Voldemort's mother, his sexual preferences, his clothing styles, even his choices in followers.  _'I suppose Crabbe and Goyle here are the best you can find…good help is so hard to find…'_  

Every now and then, I almost find myself laughing at one of the rather vulgar comments that Severus tells me Harry made.  _'I know you like to make boys scream, Tom, but I'm afraid snakes don't turn me on.'  _

Until Severus tells me how Voldemort responds to them…

He says the worst was when Harry made a rather disparaging comment about how ridiculous the title 'Lord Voldemort' sounded.  Something along the lines of '_Even a muggle could come up with something more frightening.'_

This of course did not sit well with Voldemort.  Especially since some death eaters whispered about it in the back of the throng…  Severs tells me that that comment earned Harry the scar on his cheek.  The one caused by a dark-cursed blade…

I find myself in awe of Harry's resilience when Severus tells me what he knows.  I find myself wondering if anyone else could do what he does…mock Voldemort while at his mercy…

I suppose I would have, years past…I know I did when I fought Grindewauld…

But I was in my eighties by then, an old, strong, powerful man with decades of knowledge at my disposal.  Decades of pains and strife and turmoil to arm myself with.

Perhaps Harry has that too.  Just pressed down into a few years…

Certainly, his words to Voldemort are proof enough of his strength.  Of course, there is also the fact that, according to Severus, Harry has not cried out once since the first 'abduction.'  He never says a single word in pain nor lets a single cry past bloodied lips…

It would almost bother me less if Severus told me Harry screamed and begged and pleaded every time.  At least then Harry would be proving that he is still alive.  He would be pleading for his life…

But he doesn't.  I fear that he is just waiting…waiting for his body to join where his heart and soul already are…  He does not protest to the pain…because he is waiting for just one reason, holding on tightly for just one purpose…

He is determined to kill Voldemort.  Perhaps not so much to kill him as to stop him…I know Harry, and he is incapable of causing even the least amount of suffering to any living creature…no matter what he thinks…

******************

The letter he sent me the summer after his fifth year, after his godfather had been killed is in my desk, top drawer on the right.  I keep it always within reach.

He wrote it two days before the connection snapped tight and Voldemort 'took' him for the first time.  

It was the first hint that all was not right with Harry.  He begged for my forgiveness for his actions, his rash decisions, his almost-use of the Cruciatus…he sounded so lost, so desperate for forgiveness…  It was nothing like the boy I had last seen, destroying my belongings with a wild passion.  The teen that had shouted angrily at me for minutes…

Harry had started dying…he tried to fight it with anger but it did not work.

He accepted it instead.  With love…

********************

I wish there was something I could do.

But I am doomed to wait.

I am doomed to live on…

Harry has told me, in one of his agonizingly honest moments, that he wants to look down sometime and see that I am still teaching, still guiding generations of students forward.  

*******************

"Promise me," he asks.  "Promise me something, Albus."

His voice is gentle.  Warm, so much like others say I sound…

"Anything, Harry.  Anything at all," I tell him.  It is all I can do to keep my voice steady.  For his sake.

"I don't want to know that this will happen again," he tells me.  "When I stop Voldemort, when he is no longer here to torment the world, I don't want to know that in another decade or so another Dark Lord will rise."  He smirks weakly.  "I guess I'll understand if some demented witch or wizard takes it upon themselves to become Dark, but no more orphans. No more abused children turning to the Dark because they are alone…"

He watches me.  "I will do my best, Harry," I promise.  "I will watch."

"I will hold you to it, Albus," he warns me.  His slightly serious look dissolves into one of pure understanding and acceptance.  

When he speaks again, his voice is slightly off, coming from somewhere else entirely.  "I will be watching as well."

***********************

Harry does not know that sometimes when I am alone and my office is dark and quiet, I sit in my chair and read his letter.  When I should be sleeping but cannot, because of the pair of green eyes that haunt me, that refuse to even consider accusing me, when that is all I want from them…

If there was a spell to exchange my destiny with Harry's, I would do it in an instant.  Sixteen years old…when I was sixteen, I was here, at Hogwarts, having fun with friends, tormenting professors, learning incredible tricks and spells with my wand that most had never seen before…

Harry could have had that.  He is powerful…he has the skill and the intelligence…but not the time nor the energy…he is dying at sixteen, while I was just beginning to live…

********************

I do what I can.  I am there for him when he is returned to us.  I am there for him when he is tired and weak and faint, unable to keep up his mask of smiles and strength.  I do what I can.

And my promise to him…I can do that.  Because he will be watching…

*****************************************

*********************

**

A/N:  Depressing enough?  I have to admit there is a lump in my throat that I didn't get when I was typing this.  Sniff, sniff…  Just in case anyone didn't get it, this was Dumbldore's POV.  It should've been pretty darn obvious, but that's ok.  I don't mean to be a mystery with these.  They're just viewpoints after all…  

Any feedback to this story is very much appreciated.  I'll answer any questions you have, and I do take suggestions into consideration when I write the next parts of this.  Each part just seems to come all at once, and I write them in about an hour, one every few days or maybe once a week.  If I try to rewrite them for more than grammar errors, they usually don't come out right.

So if you have a suggestion of someone I should include, tell me!  And Hermione will be coming up…just give her a little time for her thoughts to congeal into a nice chapter…  I would also like to ask that if you liked this even a little, go ahead and read some of my other stories.  I don't think they're terrible, and although they have different moods than this, they're still my highest-quality work.  

And I live off reviews, so please feed me!  --Miss Laine


	5. Torn Illusions

Disclaimer:  I do not own Harry Potter nor any of the related characters, events, etc.

A/N:  This one I started thinking up in the shower.  As soon as I was dressed again I  rushed over and started typing it.  After that, it just sort of wrote itself.  Please review with any comments you wish to make, and any suggestions.  I'm still trying to decide Harry's fate in this piece, so all the suggestions I get are helpful.  Thanx.  –Miss Laine

Title:  Torn Illusions

********************************

My father has told me the plan.

He has told me how it began.  How it proceeds.  And how it will end.

The ending is the part he loves the most.  His eyes glitter as he speaks of it.  His voice rises in pitch as he relates to me how it all will end.  He tells me the conclusion with a smile and enthusiasm.  He _knows _how it will end.  He _knows _that it will end in his favor.  He _knows…_

…when he does not know the story.

I know the story.  I know it better than most may think.  

They assume that my bias means that I only see what I want.  That I act on narrow views of things.  They would never believe that it could be an act.  An act so well done that I fool myself on many occasions.  

The only ones that are not fooled are too wise to say a word.  They watch me as I watch them.  Blue and green eyes watch me.  

Gray eyes watch them back.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I am a Malfoy.  Of course I am a _Malfoy _in name.  But I am a Malfoy in character, more importantly.

I do not follow.

I do not give allegiance to anyone but myself.

I do not have loyalty, nor the bravery and foolish integrity of the hero.

But I am alive when most believe I should be dead.  That is what matters to me, in the end.  That I am still living.  That I am still standing on my own two feet.  

My father, despite his name, is not a Malfoy.  He is weak.  He lets an inhuman creature cow him.  He is wrapped in an illusion of power given to him by his _master, _but I see right through it.  There is no power to be had in the ranks of the Dark Lord's followers.  There is only pain, stupidity, death.  Nothing I wish to receive.

My father believes completely that I want to be a death eater.  He believes it so much that one day the shock of the truth will probably kill him.  If the Dark Lord does not…

I will say I'm sorry, father, but you see, I am a Malfoy.  I am no man's slave.  Hell, I am no man's friend.  I am me, and I will continue so until old age or an assassin claims me.  He will gape, in shock at my blatant 'betrayal' and then he will run to his Lord.  His _merciful _Lord, who will probably torture him to death for his son's errant ways.

I should feel guilty, knowing what will happen.

I do not.

I am a Malfoy.  And as such, guilt is beyond me.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

He is watching me again.  Those damn eyes are on me again.

No one else seems to notice.  They do not see the way those eyes watch me when I eat.  They do not see the way that those eyes take in my mood, my thoughts…sift through them, reach a conclusion.

Today, the conclusion is a small smile.  Those damn eyes have seen that I am close to my decision.

It has been coming to this for some time.  I will not remain unmarked for much longer if I do not act.  My father says the Dark Lord has called together a meeting three days from now.  I could be marked them.

I have no illusions of bravery.  I know that if I went to that meeting and it came my time to be marked, I would let it happen.  I would not fight back or declare my independence.  I would take it, and from there plot my escape.  It is ridiculous to fight when one could do much better biding their time, pretending to accept what they despise.

_He _has no choice.  He thinks I do not know this.  Or at least he lets me think that he thinks that I don't know that he has not choice.  It is hard to know for certain…

His path was decided when he was a year old.  Mine I decided for myself.  I was given the opportunity.  He was not.

No one would believe him if he said he wanted to join the Dark Lord.  Not even the Dark Lord would even consider that.  It would be too ridiculous, and too impractical.  According to my father, the boy must die before the Dark Lord can gain full power.  There was a prophecy…ridiculous, really…prophecies are for those that are afraid to seek their own fates.

But if they can so influence the world, perhaps they should be taken into consideration…after all, one cannot be too careful.

I will seek him out after breakfast has finished.  He will be waiting, of course.  Somehow knowing already that I want to talk with him.  That is one think that I have not figured out.  How he knows to be places.  It is too much like the Headmaster.  Too much like the 150 year old man for a sixteen year old.  It is disconcerting to me.

He is eating again.  Or at least to everyone else it looks like he's eating.  He doesn't think anyone sees how he just pushes his food around, or every now and then banishes bits of it from his plate.  He's so good at it that sometimes I am fooled.  That is a feat.  Fooling a Malfoy.  Most cannot do it.

He has stopped now.  He does not like lying.  Such a Gryffindor…  It's pathetic how straightforward he is, how _noble._  I sneer at that word.  Noble.  What the hell is that?  Bravery is just rashness, loyalty is just indecision, and honesty is just stupidity.  Nobility, though.  I am not too sure on that one…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"You have decided," he says softly.  I force myself not to start.  He has surprised me today.

He is behind the door that leads to the main stairs.  How he knew to be there, I am not sure.  But he is here, as am I.  It is odd…  I realize that he has spoken and I have not responded.  "I have," I say icily.

"Your father would have had you marked," he says softly.  I do not ask how he knows this.  I know it is truth, though.  He does not lie.

Although, "Why didn't you tell me before?" I demand.  He sighs.

"It was your decision to make," he says.  "Your risk to take.  I will not interfere in the independence of others."

"You would have let them mark me," I accuse.  He smiles that very disturbing smile.  He is seeing right through me, and I shift.  It is not part of a Malfoy's demeanor to allow themselves to be taken apart by another.  I cannot figure out how to avoid it, though.

"I would have let you choose your path," he says.  "You would never have gone.  I know that, and so do you," he tells me.  The irritating part is that he is right.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It is hard to hate him anymore.  

When I came back from the summer after fifth year, I hated him.  I had told him he was going to pay, and that at least was true.  

Certainly, it was not out of loyalty to my father that I promised that to him.  It was because no one tarnishes the Malfoy name.  Not while I carry it.  After I am dead, they can trample it as much as they want.

My father disgusted me as much as I hated the boy.  He was not fit, still is not fit, to carry Malfoy as his surname.  He is a disgrace.  An insult.  A cow.  A sheep.  A pig, going to slaughter…

I came back expecting my rival to be much the same as when I had last seem him.  A little pale, a little thin, but full of defiance and anger and righteousness.  

I, a Malfoy, was surprised.  I will never admit that again.

At first I did not recognize him.  I looked for him in the great hall at the welcoming feast.  He was not there.

But when I did see him, I was surprised.  Shocked, really.

He was not the proud and angry boy I had last seen.  Here was an old man.  An old man with smooth skin but aged eyes.  Dark circles dragging under them.  

Only the hair and the scar were the same.  Even his green eyes were no longer the correct green.  They changed.  They are deeper now, deeper and smarter.  It is too much like the Headmaster.  They know much more than they should.

It only got worse from there.  My rival aged before my observant eyes.  He thinned.  He weakened, paled.  Scars appeared on his limbs and torso.  Then there was one on his cheek, ugly and bordering on disfiguring.

Irritatingly, that only seemed to draw more girls to him.  He turns them all away.  Even the ones he really does like…

I have not missed how my godfather makes him cringe.  How my godfather's voice makes him tremble and draw away.  Because my godfather is a death eater.  A spy, actually.

But he is a death eater.  Even if he thinks he is not.  

Because he tortures the Dark Lord's prisoners just as much as my father did.  For the light, he would say.  So that someday the Dark Lord could be killed.

He is wrong.  Perhaps my rival has mercy for my godfather, but I do not.  Malfoys do not show mercy.  They would never forgive or forget.  They cling tight to grudges and exact cruel and extreme revenge at their leisure.

It seems that the green-eyed boy has forgiven him though.  How do I know?  

My godfather won't look him in the eyes.  

That is they way that I know.  If he had not been forgiven, he would glare angrily.  Would demand with his black-blood eyes that the boy tell him that he understood.

But knowing that he is understood without having to explain a word is what bothers him.  Because it bothers me.

Because those green eyes forgave me five years of torment in two seconds.  Less than two seconds.  He forgave me in an instant, without hesitation.  

And a Malfoy is something else as well.  A Malfoy remembers their debts, though they try to avoid them in the first place, and pays them in full.  I will pay mine some day.  The debt that I owe to my rival.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"You only have to forgive yourself," he says.

It is as simple as that to him.  How could he possibly think it is that simple.  I ask him that.  He smiles.

"I am forgiven, I have been told," he tells me.  "Yet it meant nothing until I forgave myself."

"You're being ridiculous," I accuse.  

He just lies on the stiff hospital bed and smiles at me.  "Ridiculous?" he asks.  "I'm not the one that tried to kill me," he points out.

I turn away.  That moment will remain forever burned in my mind.  The moment in which I let my temper overcome me.  When I proved that perhaps even I am not a perfect Malfoy.  That perhaps I must work harder to become one.

He did not accuse me.  He did not even glare at me.  He just sighed, lying on the ground in a bloody pile.  He did not say a word.  Just waited for the Nurse to come and heal him.

He never betrayed me.  Never told them that it was I that beat him within an inch of his life…  That crushed his ribs and bloodied his face and broke open half-healed gashes.  I did not even realized how much I had done until it was over.  

When I was lying there with his blood on my hands.

It was Christmas eve.  Merry Christmas…  He was in the infirmary until break was over.

I visit him at night.  I'm sure that the Headmaster knows that I do, knows that I was the one that had done this…  But despite that I was not accosted.  I have never been accused or expelled or even given detention.  No one looked at me funny.  Not even my godfather, who I'm sure knows.  A Snape is almost as wily as a Malfoy.

But he just smiled when I visited the first time.  Asked me if I was still angry about what he had said.

_'You are afraid to take the step, Draco.  You are afraid to step out from under the shelter of lies and declare yourself independent and free.  You are no Malfoy.'_

Stupid words.  Ridiculous words.

Words that were enough for me to lose my temper and attack him.

Because they were true.  Painfully true.

And I showed him the pain they caused.  I almost killed him as the words almost killed me.

But he recovers, and I have already recovered.

"I'm not the one that destroyed my illusions," I tell him softly.  He laughs weakly through his damaged body.

"Think of it as a gift, Draco.  Think of it as my gift to you," he tells me.  "My illusions were ripped from me as well…at least you got a chance to _demonstrate _how much it hurt."

I shift.  I did show him how much it hurt.  I beat a weak, injured boy almost to death.  And yet he laughs about it and tells me that he has forgiven me already.

All that is left is for me to forgive myself…

*********************

A/N:  If you didn't notice, Draco never uses Harry's name.  I think that may have meaning to him…I just started writing this and Draco never seemed willing to use Harry's name in his thoughts.  If he did, it would be an insulting Potter, I suppose.  And I don't think he can do that anymore…

This one was more about Draco than Harry.  Harry just gives Draco the push he needs.  He is so sure he is a Malfoy, but in a few minutes he is stripped of his illusions and shown just how un-Malfoy he really is.

Well, coming up will be…well, someone else.  A lot of people have asked for Hermione, but I don't think she's quite ready…

Also, I'm very sorry to those that have asked me if Harry's going to live.  I'm not totally sure I should tell you how it ends, but I think it's kinda been pretty obvious where this is headed.  I toyed with the idea of letting Harry live, but sadly I already wrote the last two sections.  I just haven't written everything that leads up to them.

And I like them too much to scrap them entirely.  One of them makes me cry, sniff, sniff.  That means I really like it.

Please keep reviewing, and if someone really gives me a good argument about why Harry should live I might give in.  I could see that ending as well, but I guess I just like my already-done chapters too much.  Thank you so much to those that have reviewed, and I will try to answer all questions specifically after the next section. 

Oh, except for Ash Knight:  Just so you know, some of the questions you asked will end up answered in this piece.  I can't say that all of them will…but you'll see.  I'm still working on this.  As for the power Harry has…well, that comes up later.  I have my own ideas about that…

Well, I'll answer more things later, sorry but this A/N is already too long.  –Miss Laine


	6. Lose Yourself

Disclaimer:  Just like before.

A/N:  Here's the next one.  All of a sudden I've become really interested in working on this, and people are responding to it more now.  So all of a sudden Hermione's thoughts kind of coalesced into this.  So here it is.  –Miss Laine

Title:  Lose Yourself

*************************

Harry's eyes twinkled.  They were happy and fun.  Sure, he was thin and pale and short, but I overlooked that.  It didn't matter to me.  

After that Halloween, he could have called me a mudblood and I would have forgiven him.  He saved my life…Ron, too, I guess…but Harry's the one that stepped forward as it raised its club for that fatal swing.  He didn't even hesitate, really.  He acted, and saved me.

Yet he never acted like I owed him a thing.  It was as if he just forgot all about it…and perhaps he had…because it was what friends do.  Forgive, forget, and moved on…

And we were friends, after that.  The three of us.  Friends forever.

In fourth year, Ron almost ruined that.  He was jealous of Harry because he didn't really understand him.  That made him angry and stupid, but in the end he came to his senses.  He saved the friendship, and in doing so saved himself.  If he'd never forgiven Harry, I would never have forgiven him…and we would never have gotten together.

Fifth year Harry could have ruined it…but we had learned our lesson already.  We weren't letting him go.  No matter what he did.

He shouted at us, he kept secrets from us, lied to us…and then Sirius died.  Everything changed after that.

Harry lost the only thing like a parent he'd ever had.  No matter that he'd only known Sirius for a little over a year and a half.  Sirius was his guardian.  That was what mattered to him.

And then Sirius died, because he was rash and brave and young and stupid.  Not thinking of the teenager that had come to depend on him so much… Not that I would ever tell Harry that…though now he would agree with me, smiling sadly and nodding.

That is what changed.  Harry has started accepting things.  It is disturbing and worrisome in some ways, and reassuring in others.

He no longer shouts.  In fact, his voice is rarely raised for any reason.

He no longer argues.  He almost always agrees with what I say, and if he has any disagreement at all, he just points it out politely.  Sometimes his argument is right, and I am wrong.  I refuse to let myself feel put-out when he is right.

Because when I was right and he was not, it got a man killed.  Harry's so transparent about that.  Whenever he admits I'm right about something, I can see the pain in his eyes, as he remembers one time when he refused to listen to me.  And then Sirius was killed.

Harry has quit fighting like that.  He has quit fighting fate, and he has quit fighting where his life is headed.

The last is what scares me.  He no longer struggles against what he sees as inevitable…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

We researched it.  Ron, Harry, and I.  Because over the summer after fifth year, the connection between Harry and Voldemort snapped taut, like a rubber-band springing back.  

I first learned of it when my owl started returning my letters to Harry untouched.  Over and over, for two weeks straight.  Then one came to me from Hogwarts, politely asking me to please send my letters to Hogwarts now.  I did, and Harry started responding again, though his responses were short and shaky.

I didn't know why.  I was afraid to know why.

The Order refused to tell me.  I talked to Ron, and they weren't telling him anything either.  He did know something was up, though.  His mother spent a lot of time crying for no reason, and both Bill and Charlie looked tired and thinner than usual.

  
But no one would tell him what was going on.

We got angry.  We wrote letters.

We got a response.

We did not like the response.

…Mrs. Weasley escorted us to Hogwarts.  She wouldn't say what was going on exactly.  The reply we'd been given had been vague and roundabout.  But then this…

And I realized what could be so wrong when we were shown to the infirmary.  

Harry.

Harry was in the bed in the far corner.  He was sitting up, and smiled as we came over, but we could see just how bad he looked.  

He told us that he was fine.  But of course he always says that.  Even then, when there were small bloodstains on the sheets where they'd touched half-healed gashes, and ugly bruises on his face.

Dumbledore took us aside and told us what had happened.  Ron was green.  I couldn't stop crying.

Our best friend, our mutually most important friend, was in grave danger, had suffered through terrible tortures.

I think if I had had any idea then that there would be many more episodes like this, I would have thrown up.  As it was, I cried.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

"We've got to do something for him," Ron tells me.  His blue eyes are frantic.

He is like an older brother or a father, worried to distraction over the one they see as their charge.  Harry.

"He's weakening," I admit.  "But why shouldn't he?" I ask, in Harry's defense.  He has been strong long enough.  Why can't he have a rest?

"His eyes…Hermione…" Ron murmurs.  I slide into his lap, resting my shoulder against his chest.  His breath is warm puffs on my neck.  I think he might be crying…he has cried a lot, recently.  

"I know," I say softly.  I trace down his neck with the fingers of my left hand.

I love Ron.  I love him more than I could have ever imagined possible.

Considering that I hated him for quite a while in first year, and off and on I've been so angry at him I've shouted at him…

But he has shown me who he truly is.  And I love that man.  I love him so much…so much it hurts deep within me.  "What do you think we should do?" he asks me.  He is so lost…

"We need to remind him," I say.  "He is losing himself…we are losing him," I tell Ron.

"I don't want to lose him," Ron says into my neck.  I turn and kiss his nose softly.

"We can't lose him," I whisper.  I look deep into those blue eyes, never once lingering on the red-rims or the dark shadows.  His eyes are so beautiful…  "He will always be here," I tell him.  I am sure of that.  Whether he is with us in physical form or not is not the issue.  He will never leave us.

"I can't think of anything we haven't done already," Ron says.

"I can," I say softly.  Perhaps this will be what Harry needs…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I did not brew any potion today.  I have not slept in two days.  

I am awake only because of the pepper-up potion Ron and I brew in the third-floor girl's bathroom.  We keep vials of it at all times, for when we're about to collapse from exhaustion.

Harry doesn't know about that.  He thinks we sleep.  He does not know that we were both watching over him last night.

While he writhed and moaned and cried out weakly, clenching at the sheets while he shook and sweated.

When he woke up, Ron was pretending to sleep and I was by his side.  He cried for five minutes.  He thinks I did not know he was crying…he does not think I hear the soft, uneven breaths for what they are.

I wish he would cry aloud.  He needs to.  He deserves to.  

I don't understand how he can be beaten down so far, torn apart so many times, and always come back.  Over and over.  Circling the drain…

I wish he would cry…  I feel silly sometimes afterwards, but when he wakes up like that I shush him and whisper to him.  He does not resist when I smooth back his hair gently, letting my cool hand soothe his fevered brow.  Sometimes, he looks embarrassed, but he never resists.  He craves the attention so much…as much as I crave giving it…

I suppose to me, Harry is the little brother I never had.  My parents were quite happy to have just one child, but it left me without any siblings, obviously.

Harry is that for me.  He is the baby brother.

He'd laugh at that.

That would break my heart.

Because he should get angry.  He should feel resentful and upset that I would think of him that way.  He is, after all, older than I am.

But he wouldn't.  Not anymore.

Because he wants an older sister, a mother, as much as I want a little brother…

His parents had no choice, though…

I think of that sometimes…his parents were twenty-one when they were murdered.  It is not so long before _I _will be twenty-one…

His parents were really still just children…just two young adults with their very first child…  Dead.

Perhaps it is a Potter or Evans family trait to be destined for great things and short lives…it certainly seems that way…  I know.  I researched it in the library at some point…

…I stare at the empty cauldron in front of me.  I could care less if I brew whatever potion it is that we're supposed to be brewing.  Ron is the same.  He started the potion, at least, attempting to put the ingredients together in the cauldron.

He stopped after the first few ingredients, though, because the potion turned red.

It was supposed to turn red.  He was doing it right…

But the red looked like blood…

He couldn't look at it.  Neither could I.

We covered it up with some random ingredient that turned the entire potion a pretty purple, and left it at that.

Harry doesn't notice.

Because he's busy putting on a show.

He sits at his desk, and while the others can't see it I can see the fine trembling in his shoulders that means after this lesson he is done for the day.  He doodles on papers and smiles and laughs in response to comments.  

He'll wait until everyone else has left Potions before even attempting to get up.   We'll have to help him out of the class and back to Gryffindor.  And then he'll crawl into his bed, miserable, weak, in pain…

Professor Snape does not bother us.  I'm completely certain that Dumbledore has a hand in this.  Otherwise, Snape would have given us detention by now.  He certainly would have before…

Before he helped, as was his duty as a spy, to keep his position and tortured Harry.  

Harry won't say it, but Ron and I know it.

Harry doesn't see the empty cauldron in front of me, or the ruined attempt in front of Ron.  His own cauldron is full of a botched attempt at a potion.  It is yellow when it should be green, and steams when it should not.  

Snape will take it, though.  While he does not mark any grades for Ron and I on days like this, since we have been told that we will retake most of our classes over the summer, he will still grade Harry's.  He usually gets a D.  Or a zero.

I'm afraid that he grades because Harry will not have the chance to make it up later.  Professor Snape doesn't think that Harry will make it much longer, either.  So he give Harry grades out of his sadistic need to trod on another human being…  Grades that in all honesty do not matter.

Perhaps I should tell Professor Snape that… 

_'Sir, in case you haven't figure it out, your grades are pointless and insignificant.  Do you think the little letters you write in your stupid little book will ever matter?'_

I am sure he would have no response to that.

But I do not do it.  Because even Professor Snape is entitled to his few comforts, and it's not as if Harry even cares what his grades are.

He does try.  He works hard when he can, but it is not often.

Potions ends.  The bell rings harshly, and students leave in a flood.  I see Neville pause, eyes sweeping over the three that are left.  Dean and Seamus have also been more…watchful…lately.  It is as if…I think Harry must have talked to them.  He does that…

Harry's new goal recently has been extracting promises from other people.  He has not asked anything from myself or Ron, but I think he has already gotten what he needs from the three boys that share his and Ron's dorm room, and I think perhaps he's spoken with a few professors.  Perhaps Professor Snape.  Though I doubt that man would ever grant Harry any sort of assurances…

Harry tries to stand up.  He sweats hard, trying to walk on his own.

We give him a vial of the pepper-up we carry.  We can't give him too much, Dumbledore has warned us.  Harry's magic is in a balance with the wards that are on his bed, and if his magic fluctuates too much it would disrupt the wards.  The potion in his system makes his magic spike somewhat.  

Harry knows this as well.  He never asks for more than what we give him…  He never asks for it at all.  We make him take it.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Sometimes I wonder if there is something more practical I can do, and on those days I skip classes.  I go to the library, lying and telling Harry that I am working on some project and am excused.

He knows I am lying, but he does not say anything.  He lets me have my lies.  My comforts.

And then I search through the Restricted Section.  No one stops me.  When Madame Pince once tried, I threw a book at her.  I smiled at the book's broken remains on the floor…  She never came back…

I find nothing though…

Dumbledore has found something I think…

He will not say…

I think perhaps he has found a way to kill Voldemort…

I think perhaps he will never tell what he has found…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

People tend to underestimate how much I know.  Oh, sure, I'm miss 'know-it-all' to them, but they do not equate that with intelligence.  They do not think that perhaps I am more than just good at lessons.  Fore example, Malfoy thinks only Dumbledore and Harry watch him.  He does not even notice when my eyes land on him.

He does not know that I know…he was the one that attacked Harry over Christmas break…  That was just before Harry was assigned a professor at all times…

I think their reasoning that it would help keep Harry from being taken was only part of the reason…

They knew that if he was cornered in a hall by anyone that had a problem with him, he could die.  Because he will not fight back when he thinks he is at fault…and if he didn't think he was at fault, he would fight back so ferociously he could end up killing his attacker before he even realized what he'd done…

And that would be worse to him than death…killing…

Any death makes him sick…

When we were in Care of Magical Creatures, taking care of a clutch of baby boa constrictors, one died during the night.  Hagrid said it happens.  They don't all survive.  That's just the way it is.  Some are weaker than others.

Harry couldn't take it though. He told us its name, even, and I remembered that he could talk to snakes.  I wondered how many times he'd talked with just that one…

We withdrew from Care of Magical Creatures.  Hagrid understood…after Harry finished throwing up into the bushes at the edge of the forest, he understood perfectly.  We still visit him, but snakes of any kind are never mentioned…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I want to have a normal life.  I want to grow up and have a career, get married, have children, be happy.  I want to see my best friend get married, be at my wedding to my other best friend…I want to laugh and do silly things and be carefree.

I want to get the highest grades possible on the NEWTs when I take them.  I want to be known in the world.  I want them to see how I can change the world…

But they may never see that…because everything I want comes second.  Harry is first.  Ron is…well, perhaps he is second, and the rest of me is third…  Or maybe they're tied…tied together…

Harry has taken my chance to be great, perhaps, but I do not care.  Because he gave me that chance in the first place.  He gave me friendship and love when I didn't have it.  He has shown me how important I am to him…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

That is all I need.  Him.  To be my little brother, to be the thing I can lose myself in…

And if…when…if…he is gone, I will have Ron.  And we will lose ourselves in each other…

Because we will be lost…

Harry…

Little brother…

* * * * * * * * * * * *

A/N:  This is the part where Hermione starts crying.  She doesn't want to lose her little brother.  Some people have suggested that I need to make these things a little longer and go into more depth about character's feelings and emotions about events.  I'm working on it.  It's just difficult to keep it with the vague and blurry feeling I've been letting it have and still make it clear and sharp.  Hm, maybe I'm not making sense…

Well, thanks for reading and plleeeeeeeeaaaasssseee review!  


	7. The Lion's Cub

Disclaimer:  Harry Potter isn't mine.  

A/N:  Well, I may be keeping Harry alive…there has been a lot of people pushing for that.  And with this chapter I nullify one of the later chapters I liked a lot…sigh.  So perhaps he'll live.  It depends…will he survive the—  Whoops.  No giving it away…  Here is the next one, though…

***********************

Title:  The Lion's Promise

************************

"No!" I exclaim, slapping a hand down on the wooden railing next to me.  I want to jump out of my seat like some fifth year student and yell at them to do better.

Slytherin has just scored again.  Severus glanced over, catches my eye, and then smirks before looking away.  Drat that man.  He'll be gloating over this forever if Slytherin wins.

It's up to the seekers now.  The scores are too close.  Whoever catches the snitch will win it.

Fortunately, Mr. Potter is having a 'good' day.  

When he has a good day, he plays.  When it's a 'bad' day, he doesn't.

On those day, Ginny Weasley is our seeker.  And nothing against the girl, but she's nothing compared to Mr. Potter.  He was meant to do this.  It's obvious to anyone who sees him.

He is at home in the air…on a good day…  And he at home today.  It's been almost a month since he was last abducted by Voldemort, and just for this day, this one Quidditch match, Albus has placed wards the likes of which I have never seen on Harry's broom.  He isn't allowed off of it until one of us is within ten feet of him, just in case, but he is safe on the broom.  Well, safe from You-Know-Who anyway.

A bludger almost takes his head off.

I can see Mr. Malfoy is laughing uproariously as Mr. Potter whirls gracefully, dodging the ball.  He shuts up when he has to dodge the redirected bludger.

Mr. Potter does not laugh.  He is diving.

I've never seen anyone dive like that.  Mr. Potter tells me that he's not very good at it…he's seen it done much better at professional matches.  Though he's only been to one in his life.  If I remember correctly, Victor Krum, the Bulgarian seeker, was in that match…his feints are good, but Mr. Potter would never believe me if I told him that his are better.  

"No!  Mr. Weasley!" I exclaim again, frustrated.  That boy's let the quaffle in again.  I would think with his sudden growth spurt he'd be able to block the ball.  But despite everything, he still misses.  Rather often.

I miss Mr. Wood.  He was an incredible keeper.  Times change…

Mr. Potter is pulling out of his incredible dive.  Mr. Malfoy, who followed him, pulled out many yards above him.

Mr. Potter's toes may have skimmed the grass.  And yet he thinks the dive should be better.  I'm afraid of what an improvement would look like.

"HA!" I shout, shooting Severus a triumphant look.  My team has scored.  Gryffindor leads again, just by ten, though.  The snitch will decide this.

There is a general cry from the crowds as a bludger narrowly misses Mr. Potter.  Mr. Malfoy suddenly sees something.

He leans forward, accelerating quickly, and Mr. Potter is in pursuit, slowly gaining though their brooms are the same model.  Severus will not admit that Mr. Potter is certainly the more talented flier of the two seekers.  

My Griffindor beaters have teamed up to aim a bludger right at Mr. Malfoy.  They send it off, the bludger hurtling forward like a cannon ball.

It will hit soon…but then something happens.  There is a shout…it's hard to see.

It looks as if Mr. Potter has flown in the way of the bludger.  He takes the brunt of the hit…he's…he's got the snitch…

Mr. Malfoy is livid.  Mr. Potter is listing on his broom badly, but he has the snitch.  Clutched in his left hand, I can just make it out, fluttering like a little bird…

I'm out on the field as quickly as I can move.  Mr. Potter is sinking towards the ground much too rapidly, curled over the handle of his broom as he tries to stay on.

Mr. Malfoy just watches.  I expected him to do something more.  Say something to provoke Mr. Potter.  But he doesn't.  Just shakes his head angrily and flies away.

A simple spell insures that Mr. Potter reaches the ground safely.

* * * * * *  * * * * * * * * * *

I am stern with my Gryffindors.  I need to be.  They tend to be too prideful, too arrogant.  Certainly, I have seen my share of vindictive and arrogant teens in my house.  They feel they are better than the other houses and flaunt it.  It is embarrassing.

Mr. Potter used to be that way, just a little.  He had nothing against Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw.  In fact, I think his first attempt at a girlfriend came from Ravenclaw…

Miss Cho Chang.  He would be surprised that I know about her…  Of course he does not really realize that _everyone _knows about it.  I wish I could have a few words with the girl some days.  Neither realize that I know about such things as silly crushes and little squabbles…

Slytherin was the problem.  From the very first, Mr. Potter had fights with members of that house.  Mr. Malfoy especially.  Their hatred for each other was starting to escalate out of control by the end of fifth year.  Mr. Potter would be embarrassed, I suppose, if he knew that I knew about Mr. Malfoy's parting threat.

But I am his Head of House.  It is my job to know these things.

And he has no parents to know these things…

Mr. Potter has changed.  His hatred for Slytherin is almost nonexistent now.  Mr. Malfoy cannot get Mr. Potter to fight with him.  He can't get him angry.  No one can.  Because he accepts.

Everything.

It is saddening and heartening and comforting and disconcerting.  I have spoken with Albus about the boy, but he says it is all right.  That all will work out in the end.  That Mr. Potter will work through this.

I am not that stupid.  Albus tells me these things for his own comfort.  He wants to believe them so much he tells them to me, hoping that if he can reassure me he can reassure himself.  I will have to confront him soon.  He is deluding himself too much.  

Because what is happening with Mr. Potter is dangerous and possibly fatal.  His abductions tear him apart.  Both Mr. Potter and Albus.  Mr. Potter comes back beaten and broken and blood-covered every time, and slowly Poppy and Severus put him back together.  

Over and over.  One day, they will not need to put him together again.  Because there will be nothing left to put together…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"Professor McGonagall?"

Hermione Granger.  Her voice is tired and hoarse.  "Yes, Ms. Granger?" I ask, looking up from my desk.  I set aside the papers I am grading as I see her face.

Her eyes are bloodshot.  Swollen.  She is pale, skin dry and dead looking.  Her hair is a mess, frizzed worse than when she was a first year, and uncombed.  Her hands shake a little with the book she is holding.  "May I—May Ron and I, that is—take the transfiguration exam at a later date?" she asks.

I know what the problem is, but for the sake of normalcy I ask anyway.  "Is there some conflict, Ms. Granger?" I ask.  She sighs.  

"Harry was ill last night," she explains.  It is her part in our little 'ritual.'  I ask what is wrong, she half-lies, and I never ask why Mr. Potter will not be taking the exam.  Ever.

"I see," I say sympathetically.  "Will the two of you be ready to take it in a few more days?" I ask.  She nods.  It is a testament to her weariness that she does not look embarrassed for not being prepared for an exam.  She used to always be prepared for exams.  But not any more.  Not for many months now.

"Thank you, Professor.  Ron and I'll study tomorrow," she promises.

"Perhaps," I start to suggest.  I am deviating from the 'ritual' but it is too late.  "Perhaps Mr. Potter should see Madame Pomfrey," I suggest gently.  What ails the boy is beyond his friend's skill to heal.  Of course, Pomfrey can do no better…

Ms. Granger looks shocked and hurt.  "Harry's fine just where he's at.  He'd never let us take him to the infirmary!"

"I shouldn't have suggested that," I apologize.  She only looks partly mollified.

"The day after tomorrow Ron and I will take the exam," she says, and then leaves.  Her back is straight and stiff with her disapproval towards my suggestion, and I wonder for a moment who is older.  Ms. Granger or myself?  

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Mr. Potter is in the halls again.  After curfew.  "Mr. Potter?" I ask.

He is by a window on the third floor.  Looking out across the lake.

He turns his head at my voice, but does not look abashed.  He smiles.

"Professor," he says gently.  For a moment I think perhaps Albus has taken Mr. Potter's form, it is so eerily similar to the headmaster.  "I was enjoying the view."

"Your friends will be worried," I tell him.  I stand beside him, and lean against the stone to look over across the lake as well.

He sighs, breathing out slowly.  "They won't know," he says softly.  "I used a sleeping potion on their tea this evening.  They'll be out for probably twelve hours each."

"Why aren't you sleeping as well?" I demand.  "And you're not to be out of your bed without a professor!"

"I am here," another voice says.  Albus steps out of the shadows, smiling and holding his wand at the ready.  Just in case You-Know-Who tries anything.

"Albus!" I say, surprised.  He should be sleeping as well.  "Does no one sleep around here?"

"Hmm, it seems not," Mr. Potter says with a small grin.  He turns away from the window.  "I promised Ron and Hermione that I wouldn't do anything stupid if they fell asleep," he said.  "That means I can't sleep."

"If you took a bit of dreamless sleep potion…" I suggest.

"I'm at my limit this week," he admits.  

It is only Tuesday.  That is not a good sign.  

"Ron and Hermione forced me to drink a full dose Monday night," he explains.  "I had a Potions exam today."

"You could have taken it at a later time," I tell him.  Albus moves closer.

"Harry wished to take it today," he says.  "I tried to tell him he could take it later but…"

"Might as well," Mr. Potter says with a shrug.  "I don't know when I'll ever have enough time to retake all the exams and assignments I've already missed."

The translations of that sentence plays in the back of my mind.  

_'I don't know when I'll be well enough to concentrate on an assignment, much less study for an exam.  And if You-Know-Who wouldn't take me away for weeks at a time, I wouldn't miss so much schoolwork.'_

"You don't have to go to classes if you don't wish to," Albus says.  He is indulging his boy.  

He wants so much to see Harry happy.  He'd do anything for him…  "No, thanks all the same," he says lightly.  "Classes are about the only thing normal for me," he says with a laugh.  How can he laugh…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I follow Albus back to his office.  We have seen Mr. Potter back to his commons, and when we left he was sitting upright in his bed, his two best friends sleeping on Mr. Weasley's bed.  Usually, I would have made a fuss about two students, and more importantly two teenagers that are dating, sleeping in the same bed.  But I pretend like I don't see it.  Because there are tear stains on Ms. Granger's cheeks, and Mr. Weasley so obviously fell into his potion-induced sleep while holding onto Ms. Granger.

Mr. Potter bid us goodnight.  Though he won't sleep… He just smiled and I turned to leave.

Albus surprised me.  He leaned forward quickly, careful not to touch the warded bed, and gave Mr. Potter a short hug.  I've never seen Albus hug a student before.  Usually, he refuses to get that close to them.  Because they can become terrible things…like Tom Riddle.  

So much potential in each and every one…  A future, unique and incredible, presented by each…  And things go wrong.  Some do not find their destiny without turning to dark magic…  Some want power too much…

Albus sits down in a soft chair.  I take another, leaning back comfortably.  My heart is a turmoil of emotions.  "Albus," I say.  "You should tell me the truth."

He looks up at me with those twinkling blue eyes.  And I see that the twinkle is gone.  They are an old man's watery blue eyes, tired and worn.  They are old…

"Harry might die," he says finally.  Those three words are all he has to say for me to understand.  If Mr. Potter dies, he will be heartbroken.  Mr. Potter is a son to him…

I never had any children.  I was married to my career, I suppose.  I was wrapped up in opposing evil, fighting death eaters, wondering which friend of mine would be next to die.  I don't let people get that close if I can help it.  "Mr. Potter seems to know what he is doing," I point out.

"Ah," Albus says softly.  "That he does, Minerva.  But that is because he has accepted it—"

"What?" I can't help but exclaim.  "Surely Mr. Potter—"

"Harry.  His name is Harry, Minerva, and no matter how many times you call him 'Mr. Potter,' he will not become any less familiar.  You cannot distance yourself from him.  It's too late."

"He is my student," I argue.  "I address all of my students that way."

"But he is not your student, is he, Minerva?  He is much more…do you ever wish you'd had children, Minerva?" he asks faintly.  "I think Harry has wished he'd had parents…"

"That is not my place," I say, though I am crumbling.

"It is not your place to choose who you feel love for.  It is not your fault that Harry needs adults…he needs comfort just as much as any student…but he has no one to give it to him…"

He is right.  I can feel it inside my soul.  Harry is too dear to me to hide from.  He has no parents to turn to.  He has always turned to Albus.  And, in his own way, he has always turned to me…when Ron and Hermione are not enough…

I hope they understand that…

Harry needs adults in his life.  Something to be parents.  Best friends can be close, but they cannot replace that…

I wish there was something I could do for him.  Something more than just excuse him from exams that he will never need take.  "What should I do?" I ask Albus.  He always knows.  He will know the answer to this.

"Harry is determined to see this through to the end," Albus says.  "He will not let us try to keep him safe if it means that Voldemort will stay free.

I flinch only a little at the name.  It will take me some time to get used to calling him 'Harry.'

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

"Mr. Weasley?" I ask sharply.  He looks up from his desk and I don't press him further.  He looks terrible.  His face is pale and lax.  His hands shake.  His eyes don't focus.

Ms. Granger is actually looking alert this morning…she is not composed nor perfectly groomed by any means, but she is listening to the lecture at least.  She keeps her eyes on Harry while she listens.

Meanwhile, Mr. Weasley goes back to sleep as nonchalantly as possible.

After class, he stays.  Ms. Granger helps Harry on to his next class.  Harry is limping.  I wonder what caused it… 

"Yes, Professor?" he asks, as I stand at his approach. 

"How is Harry?" I ask.  This is not the ritual.  This is new.

"Harry?" he echoes.  He smiles, the smile growing wider as he understands, and for some silly reason I smile as well.

"Yes.  Harry."

****************************

A/N:  Well, that's McGonagall for you.  She's trying hard not to get too attached to 'her' Gryffindors, but that's impossible in some cases.  I just thought I'd give a little from her.  After all, she is Harry's head of house.  She's known him for quite some time.

Thanks to those that have reviewed.  Sorry I'm not pointing you all out here, but Shadowsfriend, I remember your review.  I'm very flattered.  Oblivion13, your review was wonderful as well.  I'm happy to know that my stories are at least a little interesting to other people.  I'll do a more detailed list of people I want to thank next section.

Lin:  I just got your review.  All of a sudden people just started reviewing at 3:33 PM today…very odd.  Anyway, your review made me almost want to blush.  I'm in the midst of dead week in college, and very stressed.  The only thing consoling me right now is people's reviews, and when I get one like yours it makes me feel like I've done something worthwhile.  Thank you for that, and just as a celebration, I posted this!  

–Miss Laine


	8. Promise to Keep

Disclaimer:  I do not own Harry Potter nor anything associated with it.

A/N:  I've got this all planned out for a bit.  I had to totally trash some sections and redo them, so it's been a little more difficult figuring out where the story is headed.  Right now it's headed in a little figure-eight while I decide which way to send it…

Keep reviewing, and I keep writing…well, okay, I'd keep writing anyway…

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Title:  Promise to Keep

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

In first year I had the most ridiculous crush on Harry.  I could barely talk in front of him.  I was just eleven, he just twelve, but to me he was like the second coming of Merlin or something.  I hadn't ever seen a boy so handsome.  Harry.  He was heaven to me.

By my third year, I'd started to realize just how silly I must have seemed.  I looked back at the class of first years and saw how silly and naïve and impetuous they were, and I wondered how Harry ever tolerated me.

I didn't love him anymore.  Why would I?  The illusion was gone.  He was just another boy, too skinny with dumb glasses.  Kept getting into trouble or hurt…  And then he had to be the one to be there when my worst nightmare came back to life.

Tom Riddle.  Alive again. Voldemort.  I hoped he didn't know what his diary had done to me.  

I had nightmares again.  They passed eventually, and I pretended they never happened.  Harry never knew.

He sent me a letter over the summer, after fifth year.  He apologized for forgetting that I had been possessed before.  He said _'if he'd had any idea how agonizing it had been, he would never have forgotten…'  _But it wasn't painful in the least.  Just like the Imperious Curse, like I'd said.  Like I was in a trance…

I didn't have the heart to tell him he was wrong, that there wasn't any pain at all.  He probably assumed there was but I just didn't say anything.  Because that's what he would have done…  

I didn't want him to feel any more guilty or embarrassed than he already was.  I just told him that it hadn't been that terrible, and the thirty seconds or so Voldemort had had him must have been much different.  

He responded with a vague letter.  

That was the last we heard of him.  And then Ron and Hermione found something out and went with mum to Hogwarts.  They told me when they got back.

Harry couldn't escape Voldemort anymore.  Voldemort had somehow tightened the connection between himself and Harry, and he could force Harry to apparate to him.  They told me Harry looked pretty bad, but sounded fine.  They didn't look convinced, though.

I didn't know what to do.  I wrote him a few letters at Hogwarts, but his responses were brief and vague.  I understood.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Harry doesn't pay me much attention.  Sometimes, his eyes rest on me during dinner or breakfast, but he doesn't speak with me much.

I understand.

He is busy.

He does not notice that I am drawing him, either.

I spend hours working on it.

Sketches, just like Dean does.

We're planning to do a portrait of Harry.  A magical one, like the rest in Hogwarts.

We say it's just in case Harry doesn't make it.  

Sometimes I slip and say it's for _when_ he doesn't make it.  And then I cry…

Ron's changed a lot.  He used to be my annoying, overbearing older brother, the one that was way too protective all the time.  Now I don't think he'd notice if I dated Malfoy.

He hasn't sent a single howler to Dean all year.  Dean and I have been going out for months now, ever since I broke up with this guy in Ravenclaw.  We just weren't working, and then Dean and I hooked up and we've stayed together.

Mainly because of Harry.  Because our ultimate goal is to draw Harry.

Dean's shown me a lot of his attempts.  I've shown him mine.

He's very good at the feel and shape of the body he draws.  I think I'm better at the face.

He can't seem to find the eyes…

I can.  I found Harry's eyes and I drew them.  On that day…

The day my brother got married.

Not Bill.  

Not Charlie.

Not Fred.  Or George.

Not even Percy.

Ron.  Married.  Barely sixteen and a half.  Married.  

That was Hermione's idea.  Her plan.  She needed to see Harry alive again.  Ron, too.  For them to keep living, they needed reassured that he was still living.

From what I hear, she told him her plan and he refused.  Said he couldn't do it that way.  She was taken aback and heartbroken—came crying to me, unable to understand what she'd done wrong.  

The next night he got down on his knees in the common room, in front of everyone, and recited to her an entire proclamation of his love.  I was there.  I wasn't the only one that was crying by the time Hermione found her voice and accepted, launching herself into his waiting arms so forcefully that he fell back onto the couch behind him.  

Harry just smiled.  That warm, happy smile.  That no one had seen in months.

It was great to see it.  I glanced over and Dean was already drawing it, hands moving fast over the sheet of paper in front of him.  He drew Ron and Hermione.  He drew Harry.

He drew Harry over and over, coaxing the eyes alive.

I took the pencil from him gently, and started to draw the eyes myself.  I was better at them.  He knew it.

But when I looked up to make sure I caught them right, Harry was looking at me.

His eyes were dead.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

I was the one that found him in that hallway.

Bleeding.

No one around.

He was a mess, lying in a heap.  Robes torn and soaked in his blood.  His nose was broken, smashed at an odd angle.  He had two black eyes, and he was having trouble breathing.

I screamed.  Ran for Pomfrey.  She took one look at him and had him in the infirmary in instants.  I don't know how she moved that fast, but she did.

Harry just gave me a wan smile and thanked me for my help. Then he passed out.

I left.  Ron and Hermione pushed in the door as I left.  Ron gave me a sweeping glance but then he was focused on Harry.  I left.

He thanked me again, later, in the common room.  Said he was glad that I had found him, or he would have died.  I told him anyone would have helped him.  And he said obviously one person wouldn't have.  He laughed.  I couldn't.  

I wanted to hurt him, too.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was spring when Ron and Hermione got married.  A month after Ron proposed. 

Mum was very supportive of the whole thing, to my surprise.  Bill had finally gotten married over the past summer.  Charlie had a girlfriend.  That was it.  Fred and George had short flings every now and then, but no one else had settled down.

And here was Ron, my youngest older brother.  Getting married at sixteen.  

Somehow, he seemed more like he was thirty.  He helped Hermione plan the wedding.  He was responsible and organized and did things without being told.  He took care of invitations, finding a minister to do the ceremony, and everything else he and Hermione needed.

All she had to do was convince her parents.

That took about two minutes, I hear.  

I've never met a smarter witch than Hermione.  I thought she'd just talk to her parents and let them meet Ron.

She was smarter than that.  She let them meet Harry.

Harry didn't realize what it was about.  He thought Hermione's parents had just come to visit the school.  That Dumbledore had let them for some special reason.

Hermione's mother had already figured out where to find a good dress by the time they left again.  Hermione's dad shook Ron's hand and greeted my parents warmly.  The four parents talked for hours after that.  There was a lot of crying and laughing and smiling going on.

Harry was taken that evening.  When Professor McGonagall was watching him.  As I hear it, a Slytherin planted a firework in the hallway as they were going through, and in the smoke and noise McGonagall lost sight of Harry for an instant.  

She banished the smoke and firework with the most powerful banishing charm anyone has ever seen, I've heard.  But Harry was gone.

He didn't get 'returned' to us for two weeks.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"Would you like to see the unicorns?" Harry asks.

I look up from my homework.

"What?" I say stupidly.

It is two weeks until school is out.  I have OWLs.  I am stressed and busy.  But unicorns…

"Unicorns," he echoes.  "Outside."

I look past him.  Dumbledore himself is standing there.  It is his shift to watch Harry I guess.  "Is it safe?" I ask.

"Yeah," he assured me.  He smiles, this happy, sad, longing smile.

"Why?" I ask.  Why is he doing this now?  He's ignored me all year, tortured me in his own way with his looks and smiles and few words… 

"Someone should see them," he says.  "You look tired."

"Okay," I find myself agreeing.  Unicorns.  I have never seen them before.  "Are there many here?" I ask him.

Harry smiles and doesn't say anything.  He leads me out of Gryffindor, and Dumbledore himself falls into step beside me.  He leans a little close to me, eyes twinkling.  "Harry wants to show someone the unicorns," he explains quietly.  _Before no one will be left to see them,_ is the unspoken finish to the sentence.  Harry doesn't hear, or at least pretends not to.  "They are called to him."

"Oh," I say softly.

We go outside.  Down the steps, out across the lawn.  To beside where the lake is closest to the Forbidden Forest.  

There is a flat grassy area there.  The moon is shining on the grass, giving it a silver hue.  It bends and bobs in the wind like a silvery sea…

Harry steps a little bit further, and Dumbledore shadows him, always fifteen feet behind him.  Wand ready.

This is a risk, I realize suddenly.  It is by no means safe.  

But Harry is willing to do this…  Why?

And suddenly I see them.

Silver-white.  Glowing, almost.  Dancing.  They come out of the trees.  Are they alive?  Are they ghosts?  Spirits?

There are dozens.  Perhaps hundreds…I can't tell.  They are everywhere…

I realize I am holding my breath.  I let it out slowly, afraid of startling the unicorns.

They do not notice me.  Nor do they notice the headmaster.

They only have eyes for Harry.

They prance closer to him.  A young one dances up to him, throwing its head around and prancing closer on just its hind legs.

It flicks its tail and whips almost in a circle, ducking its head and shaking its horn.

Harry is smiling.  It is almost more heartening to watch him than the magical creatures that are now cavorting all over the grass, like silver fish in a shining sea.

It is surreal.  It is unreal….  It is a dream…

But Harry is here.  The headmaster is a silent shadow, the vigilant guardian.  All is safe…

The unicorns see Dumbledore now.  They dance around him as well, and Harry beckons me closer.  "They won't hurt you," he assured me.

"I—oh—" I managed.  "I didn't want to scare them," I tell him as I move closer.  He takes my hand and pulls me to stand beside him.

There is a huge one standing in front of us.  Its twisted white horn is close to three feet long, like a giant icicle on its forehead.  It reaches closer and sniffs me.  Its warm breath heats my heart like a sudden fire.

I laugh.  I can't help it.  The feeling is so incredible.

Harry isn't laughing.  I notice that as I stop.  He is just smiling, then the smile fades…  Something is wrong.

"Professor?" I ask, confused.  Dumbledore moves closer, puts a hand on Harry's shoulder.

Harry jumps, whipping around.  His wand is on Dumbledore before he has even really registered what he is doing.  

The unicorns startle.

They rush past us even as Harry crumbles, collapsing, dropping his wand from weak fingers.

It is a thundering torrent of white rushing past us, like a river.  Foaming.  White.  Whipping, roaring…  Wearing away the stone that is Harry…  Like the sea has been tilted on its side and is rushing away, back to wherever it came from…

Dumbledore picks Harry up gently.  I didn't realize that Harry, at sixteen, was so light that an old man could carry him.

He is moaning and looking around blearily.  Dumbledore sighs.  "He will be fine," he tells me.  "It is just a side effect," he explains.  I nod, not understanding.  "Perhaps you should alert Ron and Hermione," he adds heavily, giving me an apologetic look.

I understand that, though.

* *  * * * ** * *  * * * * * * * * *

I sit with Dean in the common room now.  Harry does not talk to me more than a few greetings every now and then.  I understand why he does it…

I think I do, at least…

We start our painting.  It will be fairly large.  So that Harry's head and shoulders are in the painting, and they are life sized approximately.

I do the eyes, remembering that night with the unicorns.  How glowing and alive his eyes were.  I combine that look with the happiness and pride in his eyes when Ron and Hermione were wed.  

They are a sparkling green.  Like Dumbledore's.  Except that incredible deep green.

We do them first, and build the face around them.

We will add the charm that gives it life last.  Hopefully, it will be right.

We had to 'borrow' a few things from Harry in order to ensure that the painting would have Harry's memories and personality.  He never noticed the absence of a few photographs, or the missing lock of hair.  Ron got it for me.  Snipped it off while Harry was sleeping.  It of course grew back during the night.  Harry never noticed.

I am both afraid and excited for the finish of the painting.  We keep it in an empty classroom now.  We have permission from almost all of the staff.  Of course, Professor Snape has refused to acknowledge our work. He pretends it doesn't exist.

The painting is getting there.  The face is almost done, and soon we will finish it.  Professor Flitwik is going to teach us how to put the magical components into it.  And then we will have finished it.  Our portrait.  Our Harry.  My Harry…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

There is a problem.

There is a problem with the portrait.

"Why won't it move?" Dean asks.  I shrug and tap the paint-covered canvas.  But the boy in the painting does not move.

"I'm not sure," Flitwik admits.  "I've done this hundreds of times, and it has never failed me before."

"Lockhart had his own portraits that moved," I say.  "So it's not that he's alive or something like that…"

"Perhaps your portrait just has nothing to say right now," Flitwik suggests.  I sigh.

"Look!" Dean exclaims.

I do look.

The portrait has decided to come to life.  The boy moves, robes rustling as he leans forward.  I step closer, so that I am inches from the painting.  It is like he leaning forward to speak to me…

"Hold onto him, Ginny," the portrait whispers to me.  "Promise."

I stagger back.  Dean catches me.

"What, Gin?" he asks, alarmed.  "What did it say?"

"N-nothing," I say.  I give the green-eyed boy in the portrait a quick glance.  "I promise."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A/N:  The portrait will be back eventually.  I figured Harry deserved one eventually, although it's meant as a contingency for if he dies.  Ginny doesn't want him gone forever, so this is how she plans to keep him around forever.

But things are confusing for her, and Harry's not as good at hiding his feelings as he might think he is.  

Coming up next:  Someone that is VERY hard to write.  Boy, did it take me some time.  Who the heck knows what he's thinking??  I don't.  Well, I'm off to read it again and edit it again.  Thanks for reading, and the reviews are wonderful.   –Miss Laine


	9. Wolf's Eyes

Disclaimer:  I don't own Harry Potter.  Of course.

A/N:  I almost forgot to include this next viewpoint.  The sections are each so easily shuffled around that sometimes I have troubled figuring out which chapter I meant to have next.  Oh well, here he is.  Remember to review!

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Title:  Wolf's Eyes

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He was right there.  _Right there!_

I looked away.

Just for perhaps thirty seconds.  A few students were fighting.

There was a small explosion of some spells colliding.  It hurt my sensitive hearing a little, and I turned to see what was going on.

When I looked back, he was gone.  There was just a bit of a glow in the air.  Nothing else.

I was frantic by the time I made it to Albus.  My hands shook, and all I could see was Sirius's accusing eyes.  I had failed.  I had failed his godson.  Lily…James…how could I ever face them when I died?

There was nothing to be done.  Albus just nodded, looking weary.

It is because he is between a rock and a hard place right now.

If he strengthens the wards around Hogwarts, it _might _stop Voldemort from being able to take Harry.  It might.  

But if it didn't stop him, it could just make it that much worse for Harry.  We know getting ripped through the wards hurts him badly, but there is not much to do.  If we changed them to accommodate his passage through them, we would have no warning of Voldemort's attempts to take him.  Then he would be taken much more often…

Damned if you, damned if you don't….

Damned if you happen to be Harry Potter…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"Harry!" I exclaim.

He has just appeared.  In the middle of Albus's office.  I was there for something…some meeting…I don't care what…

"Harry?" Albus echoes.

I am already kneeling at the boy's side.

He is a mess.  Blood-covered, mud-caked and thinner than ever before.  One of his eyes is gone, a bloody mess in its place.  

Madame Pomfrey will heal it.  She has before.

He is limp and unconscious as I pick him up, cradling him in my shaking arms.  I wish I could help him…

Pomfrey is the only one that sees her efforts make a positive difference.

She smiles as Harry's eye heals under her careful work.  His face is whole…but damaged.  It frustrates her that she cannot heal the scar on his cheek, that she cannot erase the scars on his body.  

But she will get to see him awake.  She'll get to see him sit up and be alive again.  Even if he is not 'living.'

She cannot do much for his emaciated body, for his lack of energy.  Ron and Hermione force-feed him at every meal he attends, and push potions down his throat when they may.

For now he lies in the white bed, sleeping.  He looks whole.  Thin, scarred, but whole.

The tragedy is that he will not stay that way for long…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Even though I was very young, I remember being bit.

I was running…I don't remember exactly why I was outside, but I was…and I heard growling.

I ran for the house.  Ran and ran…but I did not make it…I was not fast enough…

The werewolf slashed open my back with its teeth.  I rolled on my back, trying to defend myself.  I was screaming wildly.

_Where were my parents???_

The werewolf lashed out and its claws slashed across my face.  It grabbed my arm, twisted and snarled…

And then a stunning spell hit it, knocked it rolling.  Of course, it was not stunned…it was surprised, though.

It ran away.  Silent, it disappeared into the dark.

My mother shushed my, cried with me, held me…until I felt the changes.  The agonizing pain as I started to transform for the very first time…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I know how Harry continues despite the torture…

Because I know how I do.  Granted, once every full moon is not the same as two weeks every month and a half or so, but in its own way, it is the same…

The inevitable looking in the future…knowing that sometime soon, sometime very soon, you will be in agony.

And then knowing that afterwards, after it is over, it will take a great deal of the time you have between the pain to even recover enough to live again.

It is the worst part of it.  Knowing that you can't escape it…

But what keeps me going…What keeps me from laying down and dying…are the moments I have with others.  The moments where I can laugh and smile and remember good times…

Like Lily and James's wedding.  It was so perfect…

As was their little son…

When Harry was born…I remember that…I was doing something for Albus, doing some work for the Order, when I got the word.

Sirius was the one who told me…well, at least tried to tell me.  Of course, he was too excited and worked up to get more than a few garbled words out, and I came to the conclusion that Lily and James had been killed.

If only I had known…

I got to the hospital as fast as I could…and found Lily and James were just fine.  Peter was there…

But Lily was smiling, beaming, holding a tiny little baby in her arms.

Little Harry had such beautiful green eyes already, and the starts of a dark head of hair.  He did not cry…I remember that…he just looked around, smiled, and giggled.  He was such a happy little babe…

When he was almost a year old, he started saying his first understandable words.  Of course, mommy and daddy were first, but then he quickly learned 'Paff' and 'Mooey.'  Even then, he did not like Peter much.  He refused to call him anything but 'Peer,' and cried whenever the man held him.

It's too bad that we didn't understand what it meant.  We could have had a chance, if we had suspected Peter.

But as I hear from Albus, at the time they suspected me.  Because I always seemed more distant…  

They could not understand how it was for me.  Being a werewolf…knowing that I could kill someone and never remember it.  Or worse, make them a werewolf like myself…

And from the moment I found out Lily and James had been killed, from the moment I found out that Sirius had supposedly betrayed them and murdered Peter as well, the good went out of my life.

There was little reason to live from full moon to full moon.  I lived alone, with a room in the basement for my transformations.  

And then one day Albus came to speak with me.

Harry was at Hogwarts, coming into his third year.  And Sirius had escaped from Azkaban…

I had not heard from Albus in some time.  I was still grieving.  I didn't even know what had been happening in the wizarding world for over a decade.  Albus filled me in a little, but it did not prepare me for the first time that I saw Harry.

I was asleep on the train, worn and weak from traveling and moving about more than I had in years.  

But when I woke up, hearing his voice, my heart leapt.  He sounded almost exactly like James.

I was afraid to face him.  I didn't want to see James.  It would break me…

But then I had to open my eyes…

And it was worse than I could have imagined.  It was James and Lily, so painfully obvious in one teenaged boy that I wanted to hug him and cry over him and tell him how sorry I was…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Harry became my reason for living.  He became the reason that I put so much effort into my teaching, and so much time into helping him.

He told me some about his previous two years at Hogwarts, and I was amazed by how much he had done.  He was certainly James's son.  

But his compassion could only have been Lily's.  

He would not let us kill Pettigrew.  When Sirius was ready to kill the man that had betrayed Harry's parents, that had put him in Azkaban for twelve years…

Harry wouldn't let us kill him.  

He saved us both…even if the rat escaped…

He was my lifeline…he was what I needed in my life…

The son I never got to have…the son that Sirius never had the opportunity to have…

But now I think he is the one living for me.  He knows that I have no one left…

I wish he wouldn't care.  I wish he'd just think about himself for a while…

But he won't.  He always asks if I'm all right, makes sure that I know that _I _am not to blame for the torture he goes through…

I wish I could believe him.  His green eyes plead with me, begging for me to accept what he says…

I wish I could.  But I've let him down, and I'm afraid of what a very similar pair of green eyes will show when I next see them…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I do what I can in this war.

That's what I tell myself every day.  It's what Albus tells me.

Harry tells me that I do more than my share.  That he wouldn't be able to go on without my support…

I think he says that just for me.  Because he doesn't want to see guilt in my eyes.  

I try hard for him.  I have learned to crush that guilt down as deep as I can, so that he will not find it when he searches my soul with those incredibly intelligent eyes…

I don't know what I would do if he were not here for me…here with me…

I never needed to have children…because I have Harry.  I couldn't imagine loving any child more than I love Harry.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"He has grown up much too fast."

Sorrowful blue eyes watch me.

"I know," I admit.  "His eyes…"

"The pain is destroying him."

"I don't know what to do."

"Do what you've been doing," he says gently.  "Be there for him.  Be beside him every time he wakes up, every time he searches for someone to hold on to."

"But what if—"

He holds up an old, gnarled hand to stop my fearful words.  "There is no what if," he says gently.  "There is only now, and what you can do for him now.  Focus on that, Remus."

"I'm afraid I'm going to lose him," I admit.  It is so hard to say it out loud…  Like tearing a hole in my heart…

He leans forward in his chair, resting his arms on his desk as he holds me with those now-somber blue eyes.  "So are we all."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A/N:  Without a doubt, this was the hardest for me to write.  That's why it's a little short, sorry.  Remus is such a complicated guy that it's hard for me to get his feeling down.  I guess I'm just not guilt-ridden enough to see through his eyes…

Anyway, someone kinda mentioned him in a review and I realized that I hadn't written anything from his point of view.  Honestly, in the first version I had of this fic, I had him dying fairly early on.  It just seemed to me that he'd be ending up where everyone else that had been his friends had ended up.  

But things change and so did this.  So he's still alive.  Whether he dies or not…that is still up in the air.

Thank you to:

**Two2feet** – you're the one that reminded me about Remus.  Thanks for the review as well.

**Shadowsfriend** – I always look forward to your input.  Your reviews are really wonderful, and your last one really was great.  I'm glad that someone'll be missing me over the summer.  I'll try to update when I can!

**Kjkit** – thanks for the review!  I'm lovin' your story right now, and it's great that you're keeping tabs on mine as well.

**Ash Knight, Imaginaryfriendless, Catti, Lin, Rin, flyinhigh**, thanks as well.  It's really wonderful to get reviews, and I'm glad you took the time to do so!

--Miss Laine


	10. Enemy's Promise

Disclaimer:  Nope. Don't own a thing.

A/N:  I wrote this right after the last one.  It was much harder to write and actually had to be revised about a half dozen times.  It may or may not work, but here it is.  Well, okay, then I went in and wrote some others so that it wasn't right then.  I needed to lead up to this a bit more.  This was pretty tricky to write, overall.  

Sadly, I think this story's started to get out of hand in its own way.  I never meant it to be as long as all this, but now new bits just keep adding on.  Tonight, I started the next three sections pretty much simultaneously.  I stared too far in the future…about ten years too far, then decided I didn't like it, then I went back nine years, and then I went back to right at the end of the section after this one.  Argh.  Anyway, if the quality seems to go down, it's because it has.  This is getting really hard to write the way I want it to be.  Considering that the first time I wrote this whole thing, it was only three sections long…  I might just post that version later…

*****************************

Title:  Enemy's Promise

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He spits a mouthful of blood on the stones.  Then he smiles.

His damn eyes glare up at me.  They are not pleading like they should be.

Nothing works right with him…he should be pleading with me, begging for death…

_'Perhaps you should practice curses in your spare time, Tommy.  They're feeling rather weak lately.'_

His words echo in my head, filling me with hate.  "Crucio," I say again.

He writhes, involuntarily responding to the contractions in his muscles.  He cannot stop the way his body reacts to the pain, and I watch with a cold smile.

It is irritating that he does not scream.

He did the first time…screamed wildly, thrashing, screaming, whimpering…but never begging or giving in…

And then the second time he did not make a sound above a groan.  Never again did he scream…

I lift the curse.

_'Hate has gotten you nowhere.  Look at yourself.  A caricature of humanity…when you could have been a hero.  You could have been great.'_

I cast another curse.  He curls into a ball as a red slash appears, lancing down his arm.  Soon, I will turn him over to the others…

When the curse ends he pushes himself up on his bleeding arms.  His eyes are on me again.  I want to put them out…I did, on one occasions…but they are always healed…it would be of no interest to me if he could not be put together again before I ripped him apart…

One day, he will break…

_'Still with you, Tom.__  I'm not going anywhere yet.'_

Not today.  His eyes are on me.

I should see hate.

_'You can't make me do anything I don't want to.  You can't force me to be what I am not.'_

I don't see hate.

Love.  Love in those damn green eyes.  He is thinking of something else…his parents, perhaps.  Stupid, ridiculous parents that managed what none others before could.  They saved their son…saved him from instant death.  Saved him for something more…more pain.

Instead, he is here, in my lair.  Torture is his life now…I have made sure of that…

I will prove to them all that this boy cannot defeat me.

He is so weak already.  And yet his words still echo…

_'My parents died for me, Tom.  Your mother died for you, Tom.  And yet you throw it all away…  Who is to say that I cannot die for those I love?  Who is to say that it will not change the world?  You?'_

"Have your fun with him," I direct, stepping back.  The boy won't stop looking at me.  It is as if he expects something from me…Death is what he will get, when I am finished playing with him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

My father left my mother when he found out she was a witch.  That muggle left my mother, left me after she died while giving me life.

A pathetic muggle.

I killed him so easily.  Just blasted his life out of him.  I don't think he had a soul…

I killed his parents, my grandparents, as well.  They knew about my mother.  And yet they let him get rid of me.  Let him abandon me…

I hated him.  Muggles.

Filth.

Even worse than him, though, is death.

Death is what forced me to live in an orphanage.  I grew up beaten, starved, alone…

My mother's death did that.  Death.

Hogwarts was a home to me for many years.

A place where I could find power.

The Chamber of Secrets was one my favorite haunts during my schooling.  I learned of it rather easily, and the basilisk was quite happy to speak with me.  And do my bidding…

It is too bad only one died, before Albus began his annoying watch…

He suspected.

And yet…I'm sure he knew that I had to live in an orphanage.  I'm sure he knew of the abuse…  And yet, he did nothing about that…

Muggle-loving fool.

Blinded by his love for a people that are not his own.  Like they are sweet pets or something…

They have a bite that is hidden by their bark.  They are dangerous, petty, ignorant.

Foolish.  It is foolish to let them and the weak wizards and witches they produce into our world.  They will ruin it…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

He lies in a steadily-growing smear of blood.  His clothes are gone…shredded by one too many cutting or burning curses…

I smile.  Sneer, perhaps…  He looks confused by my smile.  He does not know that I'm smiling at death.  Not at him…  

But his green eyes swim with confusion at my superior smile…  

He is not so noble now…

Noble…when did I think of him that way?  He is my enemy, the brat of a boy that stopped my work for thirteen years.  The thorn in my side that has refused to die…not that I will let him, now…

It is too much fun to play with him…

He cannot escape me.  I can rape his mind with ease, no matter where he is and no matter where I am.  Anything he knows I know.

It is too bad he refuses to join the pathetic Order of the Phoenix.  He purposefully hides from its members.  Refuses to let me know any more than he did before I pulled our connection tight.

He is not moving…perhaps he is…no, he is breathing…good…

"Send him back," I order.  A few death eaters move forward to do my bidding.  I watch them gather up the pitiful heap of flesh that somehow still is a living, breathing, being.  "Leave him in the forest," I add.  If the beasts devour him, I will laugh.  I can just imagine them tearing apart the brat, ripping his flesh from his bones…

Perhaps that is how I will end it, I muse.  Perhaps I will transform myself into some creature and eat my enemy.  Swallow him in pieces…

_'You are too afraid of what it could mean.  Killing me…what would that mean to you, Tom?  You would be one step closer to your goal, to getting whatever you want…but what do you want, Tom?'_

The brat is a fool.  

Of course I know what I want.

_(…Then why don't I kill him…)_

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I shove my consciousness into Potter's head.  He resists, but it is simple to just step around the strong walls he puts up and lock myself inside his head.

He cannot push me out when I am in the center of his mind.

I see everything he sees.  I sit in his mind and ride with him through his day.  Gauging his strength, his mood.

I don't do it often.

I find myself almost understanding him when I stay too long…

It is disconcerting that his thoughts tell me that he understands me…

And when I find those thoughts, it almost frightens me to see just how accurate they are…

He cannot understand me though.  How could he?

_'We are both orphans, Tom.  You, because of your father, I , because of you.  We are not so different, Tom.  Can you not see that?  Is it why you must torture me?  Surely you cannot hate yourself that much…'_

I decide to send him on a little trip down memory lane.  His body falls to the ground even as I force him back to his childhood…

His aunt, Aunt Petunia, he calls her, takes a swing at him with a frying pan.  Still hot from the muggle oven it rested upon.

He ducks, fleeing the danger, and she catches him on the backswing.  A glancing blow, to be sure, but he staggers and falls, crawling away.

She is shouting about something petty.  Burned eggs…something like that…

I laugh as the little boy in the memory cringes and escapes, running…right into the arms of his waiting torturers.

This is one of my favorite days to play out.  One of the worst days in the brat's childhood, I believe.

He tells me that this is nothing.  He says the day I murdered that Diggory boy was worse.  That when his precious mutt Godfather died, it was worse.

But this is much more fun.

The other boys take turns holding him down while another punches him.  

The skinny little boy tries to fight back, kicking and struggling.  His ridiculous glasses are gone, knocked off his face long ago.

His nose is bleeding.  His lip is cut, and I can tell there will be bruises on his face when this is over.

I smile, watching it.

The boy just watches silently, trapped in his head.  Every now and then he speaks to me in an annoyingly nonchalant voice…

_'Perhaps this should end now, Tom.  People are beginning to wonder why I'm just lying on my back in the middle of the second-floor corridor.'_

I ignore him.  I watch more of his childhood.  Watch him perform his first accidental magic.  A rather powerful display, actually…  

And yet he does not desire power…he is weak…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I laugh as I give the pull that will take the boy back with me.  The stupid werewolf has looked away, at some stupid students squabbling.  He will not notice until it is too late.

It is not as if the boy can say a word.

I tear him straight out of Hogwarts.  It is probably the most painful part of his tortures.  Because no one can apparate out of Hogwarts, I am told.

But I force him to.  The wards try to keep him.  I am stronger, and I take him.

I can feel vaguely the tugging that must be like metal hooks in his skin to him.  It makes me smile to know that his haven works against him so easily.

_'Perhaps you should hire a maid, Tom.  At least a house elf—I know one that would work for pay…  Ever since you came into his life, he's been happier…liberated.  These cobwebs really have to go, Tom.'_

I put him under a curse or other before he can say much.  He is always talking, running that ridiculous mouth and saying ridiculous things.

It is odd that they should bother me so much…

_'You're__ not half as bad as my Potions Professor…he makes me test my own potions.  That's torture you'll never top.'_

If only the brat knew that one of his torturers were that very man…

And Severus is very good with Crucio.  The boy always manages to infuriate the man.  It is rather amusing to watch…

I had suspected that perhaps Severus was turning, perhaps even already turned and spying on me.  But there is no way that the man could take so much pleasure in making the boy writhe and groan if he cared about the boy at all.  If he had any wish for the light side to win, he would not torture the boy so _eagerly._

_'You must be the ugliest of the lot.  Afraid to show yourself…or are you afraid that when you are seen, when people know who you are, that you will have to atone for your crimes?'_

His comments make some of my followers nervous.  Some whisper amongst themselves.

Perhaps that is why he does it…to irritate me and cause unrest in my followers.

But…they always see him at the end.  I win.  He never does…

_'So you take over.  And then what?  Will you move on to persecuting those that aren't pureblood six generations back?  When you yourself are half-blood, like me?  Does it bother your death eaters that your father was a muggle.  A terrible muggle, even worse…'_

One of these days I will kill him.  I will make him scream once before he dies.

And then I will take over.

And I will show the world just what I am capable of.

_(The boy has already shown the world…he has already proven himself.)_

Somewhere, the brat is in the forest.  Wild animals will circle but undoubtedly stay away from the dying body.  They will not take it…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"Master, there is something—" Lucius says, cringing at my feet.  He looks nervous, afraid.  As well he should be.

"Come," I say condescendingly.  "Surely you can still speak?"

"The boy—" Lucius starts.  I raise an eyebrow.  

"Yes?" I push.  The idiot will have to be punished for his inability to finish a sentence.  Idiot.

"We left him as you asked…but the others are uneasy about it."

"Why?" I ask.  What possibly could have happened?

"Unicorns," he spits out.  "Unicorns came again.  They—they drove us away from the boy…we were forced to leave by unicorns.  The men see it as a sign."

"You were forced away from a dying boy by a few unicorns?" I ask.  My fingers itch to curse him.  Stupid sheep, cowering at my feet.

"There were several dozen, perhaps over one hundred," he admits.

"You should not lie to me," I say.  "I know there are not that many unicorns in that forest."

"They—I think perhaps the boy is calling them somehow," Lucius tells me.  "They come quickly…it is as if they appear in the forest and then they charge us.  We killed one this time, but MacNair was killed by his spell as well…"

"There is really not that much I expect from you," I say softly.  "A bunch of innocent little unicorns should not be a worry."

I smile while he writhes.  He is nothing compared to the boy, but he will do until I have him back…

I have promised the boy death, after all…

***********************

A/N:  Voldemort's a pretty sick guy, I think.  But it's based on his hate of the world and how his attempts at immortality have warped him.  It's based in something, at least.  I'm not sure how in-character for Voldemort this is, since you don't really have much idea of what he's like.  But this is what happened when I tried to imagine his POV.  The next is just as tricky as this one was…maybe even more so.

Please Review!  --Miss Laine


	11. Mistunderstanding

Disclaimer:  Don't own it, and sure as heck don't profit off of it.  Harry Potter and everything associated with it is not mine.

A/N:  Here it is…drumroll…Harry's gonna speak!  Uh…this isn't the end of it, though.  So don't quit on it yet.  There's a few more parts.  

*****************

Title:  Misunderstanding

*****************

I don't think Albus will realize what I did.  Well, at least not for a little while…

The fence-climbing bit could have been a bit better done, but I didn't have much of a choice.

Okay, fine, he will know.  I'm not exactly Mr. Subtle.  Not when it comes to half-baked desperate plans.  I'm terrible at those.  Really terrible.  

For example, I could be wrong about this…I tend to be wrong fairly often…

Albus will go nuts when he knows what I did…  Especially when he realizes that I did it on purpose…

Took a little jaunt out of the protected area…no one saw me scale the fence…at least I don't think anyone did…

Tom certainly didn't suspect.  Not really.  He just noticed I'd overstepped the protective boundaries by about ten feet and gave a jerk.  I had him thinking that I was jumping the fence because I wanted to retrieve a baseball that had went over the fence…I had been tossing it up and down for half an hour, but it 'got' away from me.  Sure.  He hadn't realized that I'd slowly been Occluding my mind.  Letting him only see what I wanted him to see…he never really noticed that each time he tore through my head that there was less to see.  

Because if he had seen it all, known it all, he would have known how agonizingly tiring it was just to throw a stupid ball around.  And he would have known that I didn't really have the strength to climb a fence.  But he didn't notice.  He was arrogant and sure that he was in charge.

His lack of understanding is what failed him.  Or he would have understood that to think you are in charge is to show that you are not…wow, I'm confusing myself a little now…

For once, it didn't hurt.  No anti-apparation wards to be ripped through.

Perhaps I am wrong, like usual, and doing this is a mistake…but I think I may be right, just this once…

And I didn't even have to listen to Hermione to get it right…

I'm sorry.  That was cruel.  I listen to her because she's much smarter than me.  The wonderful mother that always knows what is best.  But just this once I might've been just as smart as her…

The pain is really nothing anymore.  After the first time, the first week and a half, two weeks, whatever it was, when I cried and screamed and whimpered and moaned…  Now it just doesn't really register.  It hurts, sure.  It always hurts.

But I think the hurt was in knowing how final it _wasn't_.  

How I would have to go through the agony of recovery.  I would have to live on in pain…  That is what made it hurt so much…

The anticipation of pain is as bad as the pain, you know?  Well, to me the anticipation of living through the pain is just as bad as the pain.  Not this time, though.  This time it ends.  One way or another…  

Although I will miss the unicorns…

He smiles when he tortures me.  I'm still trying to figure that out.  I'm fairly certain my silence annoys him, my gaze bothers him, but still he smiles.  Perhaps it is a bitter smile…it is so hard to tell on his face, his grotesque and inhuman face.

"Better not smile too much," I say through chipped and blood-slicked teeth.  "It might stick that way."

Cruciatus is his favorite.  Because it shows his pain…demonstrates his agony on a level nothing else can accomplish.

"You must have grown up in a cupboard, to have the issues you have now," I tell him.  I know full well that he knows how I grew up.

He was struck more as a boy, and I was hated more.  It all evens out in the end…

I think the pain has made me rather philosophical.  I find I have a lot of time on my hands…between the pain and the waiting for more pain, there is time to see things in a new light…  I think it has been…enlightening…

I hate to admit it but I do not think of my friends when I am in that pain.  I did the first time.  And that is why I screamed.  Because I thought of the _living.___

Now I think of my parents and my godfather.  The _dying._  

And I can almost imagine smiling despite the pain…  They are waiting for me…every bit of agony brings me one step closer…one step closer to them, to seeing them…

Perhaps I am suicidal…

But I want to live, I think…if only I could…

And other times, in the mist of red that clouds my vision, I see the unicorns, dancing their dance of life…that makes me smile, too…

He has stopped.  Tom lets his wand drop to his side.  His expression has changed.  It is different this time…

He looks frustrated, angry…confused?  I want to laugh aloud.  I was right.  I did something right.  I was right to come…

I force myself to roll onto my back.  I have no strength to do more.  Not this time…

I can still speak…  

"Tom," I cough.  "Can you feel it?  The world is changing today…everywhere around you the world is living and breathing and dying and ending…"

He dismisses his followers, his docile sheep in wolf's clothing.  They shuffle out…and then he asks one to stay.  

I know who it is.  It is Severus.  His hood is up, his face covered.  Hopefully, Voldemort does not suspect something…

He does not, it seems.  He has been dwelling on something…I've seen it, in those red eyes.  He has been pensive lately…this entire week of torture, he has been…  I'm not sure what to call it.  Not the same.  Not the sadistic and cruel torturer that I had mostly figured out.  He has changed…and I think I'm starting to see the results of my labor.

"Going for a walk, Tom?" I ask, as he has Severus haul me to my feet.  

He just glares at me over his shoulder, then gestures for us to follow before sweeping from the room.  I chance a short glance up at Severus, but he does not look down.  He just half-carry, half-pushes me.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

He has been obsessed with the unicorns…he wants to see them…

I don't understand it entirely…I guess Lucius told him that they come to me whenever he leaves me somewhere.  They congregate, and I awake to their healing…they keep me alive until help arrives, and then vanish into the darkness.

Severus had told me it seemed to be bothering Tom, that the unicorns would come to me…

That they willingly give life to me as they can, and I do not bring the cursed half-life of the damned down upon myself…

He wants it…

It is too bad he does not know that wanting it is what damns it…

But he does not know.  He does not _understand…_

And so he is going to use me as bait, to see them, to force them to come to him…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

"Set him down," Tom says, in his cold, sharp voice.

Severus complies immediately.  Just drops me in the dirt.  I understand his roughness, though.  He cannot be seen as favoring me…it draws attention, and this situation is tenuous at best…

The air is warm.  A gentle breeze flutters over my body, a warm summer wind.  It feels so good, like a warm blanket of feathers on my tattered skin.  I just want to close my eyes and smile, feeling the wind and the earth beneath me.

Too soon, a hand grabs my chin.  The contact makes pain sear through my head, burning in my scar.  Tom is forcing me to look at him.  "Where are they?" he demands.

"Love brings them," I say softly, my voice raspy.  From a strangulation spell, I think.  Or perhaps from when Avery pinned me against the stone wall with his forearm.  I don't remember…

"Make them come," he commands sharply.  I sigh.

"I cannot," I tell him.  "I _told _you, Tom."

He hits me.  Hard.  Throws my head away from him.

I hit the dirt again, feel the blood seeping from my nose and mouth.  There is blood on the side of my head as well.  I can feel it…

"Tom," I say, though the words are muffled in the dirt.  "Tom," I say, louder.  He kicks me, and I roll onto my back.

Surprisingly, this is progress.  I think he _wants _to hear me speak, for once.  Usually, he works hard to shut me up.  Last time he broke my jaw.  Now, he is listening…

"Tom," I say again, just to be sure I can speak.  His eyes are on me.  I cannot see him in the darkness, but I know he is watching me.  "Don't you understand it yet?" I ask.  "Don't you see?"

"Foolish brat," he growls.  "You still think that you can get out of this alive."

I manage a weak laugh.  He is so wrapped up in killing me that he does not see what is right in front of him.  "No…I don't care if I live," I tell him.  It is true.  Very true.  If I can stop the deaths, then my goal will be accomplished…  "You want to show everyone how powerful you are," I rasp.  "But you cannot make a unicorn come to you…don't you see?  Your power is worth nothing here…your power and your wants will damn you in the end…"

"I will show you," Tom says icily.  He raises his wand, and there is a glow…

There is pain…pain and nausea…and it ends, and it is dark again…  I smile through the pain in my body.  There is no unicorn.

He curses me again.  It almost sends me into unconsciousness, but he stops just before my vision fades.

He is at the edge.  He is so frustrated with his position, with his place in life…he wants so much to live forever, to rule, to show everyone his power…

It is too bad for him that he cannot understand that his power means nothing.  Living forever is severely overrated as well…  And who would want to rule anything?  Paperwork and guilt is all that is to be gained…

There is a shape lurking in the trees.  Tom turns, raising his wand.  He creates a glow at the end of it, and the creature is bathed in light.

It is not a unicorn…it is hard for me to see anything at all, but I know a unicorn and this is not one…  This has two legs only.  It is disfigured and disgusting…

I want to laugh.  I know what it is.  It is old age.  A boggart has been drawn by us, looking for our fear…and it has taken the shape of age…

Voldemort's fear. Death…  

He destroys the boggart with a swipe of his wand, and age is blasted to bits in a blaze of light.  If only it were so simple, I am sure he is thinking…

"There will be no unicorns tonight," I say.  Ginny has seen the unicorns…they came for me even though she and Albus were there.  Because they are not evil…because they wanted nothing from the unicorns…   

But Tom will never see them come to him.  They will not even come to me if he is there… 

Tom just turns away.

Severus takes me back to my cell in Tom's lair.  He does not say a word.  I think he concerned.  He is wondering…  And I smile.  Tom is starting to change…

 * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

In fifth year, I was a lot different than I am now.  Sure, at the end of fourth I saw Cedric die, but it didn't really hit me then.  Just one second this guy I kind of knew was alive, the next he was dead.  

There was too much going on, too much happening, too much darkness and pain and running for me to think about it too much.

Not like with Sirius.

I was angry fifth year.  Angry at the world, myself, the life I had to lead.  I hated having to be the 'Boy-Who-Lived,' the boy who had brought Voldemort back.  It just didn't seem fair to me.  Why me?  

And I almost never listened to Hermione.  I listened to my rather idiotic impulses.

And it got Sirius killed.

Don't worry.  I don't blame myself anymore.  I made a mistake, sure, but Sirius is the one that came to the Department of Mysteries.  He didn't have to come.

But he did because, just as Albus told me, he was young and impetuous and all that.  He did rash things and reacted on his impulses, just like I did.  It was a terrible time for me.

I spent a lot of the first few weeks of summer in a depression, going over that night time and again in my mind.  I couldn't figure it out.

And then I didn't really get much of chance.

A few days or so before my sixteenth birthday, the connection I share with Tom changed.  One minutes I was at my desk, desperately trying to write an essay for Herbology, and the next I was on the floor.  

Something pulling inside me, tightening, stretching.

It hurt, sort of, but more of a frightening than painful sort of hurt.  I was scared.  I thought I was hurt or sick or something.  I didn't know what it was.  

My relatives of course were too scared to help me.  I remember clearly my Aunt in the doorway of my room, just watching me lying on the floor.  I couldn't talk, I could barely breathe.  I was drowning on air…

Finally, I guess, she managed to write a short note to the Order and send it out with Hedwig, because the next thing I remembered clearly was Tonks, with lime-green hair, leaning over me worriedly.

…I miss Hedwig…

Of course, they couldn't figure out what was wrong.  Assumed something had changed, but they weren't sure what.

And that night Tom figured it out.  He came into my head with sudden and painful ease.  It scared me…

Not as much as the next two weeks scared me, though.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The tenth day of this spate of torture begins the same.  A few death eaters come and 'visit.'  Their attention seems unfocused, though.  As if they are unsure of what they do anymore…

I want to hug them, to thank them even as they break my ribs and batter my face…  Because they are changing as well…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The first time was terrible.  The worst.  I didn't want to die then…I don't think I do now, but something has changed.  I no longer _fear _death the way I did.

Perhaps it was not so much that I feared death as I feared dying alone, a pathetic pile of blood and flesh and bone.  I feared giving up.  I feared that the little hope I had would die without me…I feared that I was too weak to continue on…

The fear was unimportant in the end…because it was the fear that made me weak…and after I lost it, lost the fear of everything else…it no longer mattered.

I screamed every time they hurt me.  I tried to escape, I fought back wildly.  When a week had passed, I was reduced to a shivering, whimpering wreck.  I would have done anything to escape the pain.  It was driving me insane.

I kept thinking of my friends.  Wondering if they knew that I was gone.  Wondering if they'd be looking for me, if the Order was trying to rescue me.  And I screamed with every curse.  With every kick and slash and broken bone.

It took some time to get used to not eating that time.  For two weeks.  No food.  Just some questionable water that I had to drag myself to every time.  

…The death eaters took sadistic pleasure in dumping my tattered body in the corner farthest from the shallow vessel full of water…

I cried a lot the first seven days.  When I thought I was alone, when I was taken from my cell…all of the time.  I would weep from fear and self-pity and knowing that I would not be relieved of my suffering any time soon.  

I started automatically picking Severus out of the death eaters assembled at my tortures.  It was the way he walked and stood, really, that betrayed him to me.  I watched him.  If he was here, the Order knew where I was.  I could hope for rescue.

But then nine days into it…perhaps it was ten…I realized no one was coming for me.  No one was going to rescue me.  How could they?  Escape from Tom's lair was probably impossible.

That was the turning point.  I realized escape was death…and my parents, Sirius…  I realized I could smile and think of them.

Thinking on the bright side, I call it.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Tom comes for me alone.  He grabs my broken left arm and drags me from the cell.  He tells me I have my last chance today.  I fall on the ground when he lets me go before I respond.  "What would you have me do?" I ask.  There is no harm in asking.

He waves his wand and a wall moves.  There is a unicorn.  He has managed to capture one alive.  It is chained in place, hooves anchored down and head restrained close to the ground…

Such a proud, innocent creature, so bound…  Tom does not understand, and I feel a little guilt.  I have not tried hard enough…

"Kill it and you can join me," he tells me.

"Kill it, and you will burn in Hell," I tell him.  He watches me with his red eyes, and I watch him back.

He looks away first.

"I have realized there is nothing to be gained by killing you," he says finally.  "If you prove yourself to me, I will stop this.  No more torture."

"You're desperate, Tom," I say softly.  He watches as I slowly shove myself closer to him.  I have been waiting for this day.  The day he would be alone…

The unicorn is feeding me strength.  I can feel it in my body.  With each silvery drop of blood it sheds, my strength grows.  My muscles are tensing, ready to move.  Ready to work just this one time…  

"Why can't it be killed?" he asks.  Of course it can be killed, I think.  MacNair killed one…and then died…

But it does not _die.  _That is what he's so fascinated by…  He is losing himself…it is almost saddening to hear…the death eaters do not understand how insane their leader really is, so obsessed with living forever that he does not live at all…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

In my first year, the Sorcerer's Stone seemed like some sort of miracle to me.  Ron was even more entranced…perhaps because everything he wanted resided in the world of the living…  But what I wanted most was dead.  My family.

But still, no child can detest the idea of immortality and unending riches.  Every child wants to live forever…they already think they are immortal.  I look back on some of the things I did as a first and second year, and I realize just how foolish and brash and brave and careless I was with my life.  I didn't understand what death meant.

No turning back.

Permanent.

And so immortality of course seemed incredible to me.  I was not disappointed that I would never have it, that the stone was destroyed, but I was still shocked that Nicholas Flamel was willing to give it up.  It didn't make any sense to me.

It would make no sense to Tom, even now.  After I have understood why they would give it up.

I wish Tom could understand…  It would make things so much easier for him, so much easier to take…

But he refuses to accept death.  He refuses it perhaps because his mother had to die…  I don't know.  My parent's murders didn't make me need immortality.  But perhaps it is because his mother was taken for no real reason…she was taken by death herself.  _Tom _took my parents.  

I know that Tom is slightly insane.  His drive for immortality used to be about having the ability to rule the wizarding world forever, or for as long as he wished.  But now the overall goal has faded.  He just wishes for immortality.  _It _is the most important thing to him.  He is so afraid to die…he is so afraid that he will be forgotten…it makes me pity him in the end…

Ruling has become unimportant to him, in a sense…

He does not wish to rule wizards and mortal men and women.  He wishes to rule over life itself, to conquer death and prove himself above human constraints…

I wish he would understand…  Immortality does not free you from death…it binds you ever closer…you are no longer able to die…you have forfeited life for the sake of living…

I'm not sure if I make sense.  I'm afraid I may be partially insane as well…and so I crave…well, nothing, really…  I crave understanding, perhaps.  I want Tom to understand, to see things as I do.  He could be satisfied if he understood…

But he does not…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  

I push myself up a little, and then slowly, wavering, get to my feet.

He does not think I am a threat…

He is watching the unicorn, which in turn is watching us.  Silvery blood is running down its neck from where its restraints have cut into its perfect white hide.  It will die if left there…

"Immortality is not what you think," I say.  "Immortality is not living forever," I say.  "Your lowliest follower is closer to immortality than you ever will be.  No one will remember you for who you really are," I say.

"You don't know what you're talking about, boy," he snarls.  Red eyes on the unicorn.

He is not to the point yet.  He is not to the edge.  "I think perhaps I do," I say softly.  I am close enough now.  The unicorn is straining against the chains…because it is doing all it can to force its energy into my body…  "You will never get what you want, Tom," I tell him.  "Death will take you.  It will take us all."  I put all of the truth and honest I can force into my voice.  Hopefully, he will hear it and realize it is true…

He whirls towards me, furious, wand raised.  The words come tumbling out of his mouth in a sudden rush of hate and anger and…understanding.  Of what I have been telling him all along.

He is too late.  I grasp the wand just ahead of his hands with my right hand.  The left is useless, but I do not need it.  Even as the words leave his mouth, I have turned the tip of his wand back towards his chest.

I pushed him to the point perfectly.  I could not save him one way, but I can save him still…  

The green light slams into him.  He has no way to avoid it.  It hits him hard, almost instantaneously.  There is a roaring sound.  There is a whirl of green light.  He is screaming…

The door slams open…there is a death eater.  He runs towards us…it is Severus.

"What—" he starts, then suddenly collapses and screams, clutching his left arm.  There is smoke rising from it…

"Arm," I say, gasping the word out while I focus on keeping Tom under his own spell…  "You've got to cut it…"

Severus understands.  He points his wand at his arm, and this time screams louder as he cuts his arm off, just past the Dark Mark.

There are screams everywhere now.  Death eaters come in.  Severus hides his severed arm, which is slowly burning up in a plume of smoke and smoldering, in the hems of his robes.  The others start to fall, screaming and writhing.  

They die.  Smoking corpses.  Somewhere out there, all of the other Death Eaters are dying.  Burning to ash, leaving behind piles of robes.  

I hope there were no other spies.  I hope Severus will manage his potions with just one hand…  It is better than no hands, I think, even as the pain erupts in my head.  I cannot cut this pain off.  It is in my head…

The connection.  I suspected this would happen…but it is of no consequence.  This is the end.  He will be completely dead, all traces of him obliterated.  Even as the death eaters continue to fall, one by one, Severus staggers towards me.

I am lying on the ground again.  I don't remember how I got there, exactly.

To my right there is a pile of fine ash, a curled remains of a feather buried in the pile.  Nothing else is left…

Severus kneels near me.  His face is contorted with pain as he cradles the stump of his arm tightly against his body.

"Unicorn," I get out.  "Free it, please," I ask.  It will find its own way out, I know.

Severus frees it immediately.  It staggers away, weak from feeding me its strength.  Then, Severus takes a moment to staunch the bleeding from where his left forearm had been.  The best spells he knows only slow the bleeding to a steady ooze.

He wraps the stump in rags from his cloak.  He has already thrown his mask aside.

"Potter," he says harshly.

It is hard to see him through the pain…  My vision is going in and out, as if my eyes are going to stop working any moment now…

"Potter, you idiot," he growls.  I smile up at him.

"You'll have to get an assistant now," I manage.  "One-armed potion masters aren't that efficient."

"Stupid, Potter," he says.  He is not listening.  Perhaps I should say something worthwhile.

"I will miss the unicorns," I say.  Hmm.  Not quite what I mean to say, but it is what I mean…

"Potter…" he says again.  How many times does he want to get 'Potter' in before I can no longer hear him?  I thought he was a Slytherin…

"Lie for me," I say suddenly.  It is perfect.  I am no good at last words or noble sayings…but he can lie and make some up for me, I realize.

"What?" he says flatly.  He is doing something…ah…my scar is bleeding, gushing everywhere.  No wonder my vision is going…

"Lie," I tell him.  "Tell friends I told them things," I instruct.  "Not unicorn."

I hope he understands.  I don't want my friends to think I died without thinking of them.  Well, okay, I am not thinking of them, but that is why Severus will lie for me.

All I can see is the unicorns…calling to me…

"Idiotic Gryffindor," his voice comes to me through a haze.  I am fading…  It does not hurt, I realize.  It feels much better than I have felt in a long time.

_Mother, I'm coming home, _I think.

"Lying to your friends at the last," he snarls.  "I thought you never lied," he adds scathingly.  I smile.  I can't see anymore.

"You lie," I tell him.  "I don't.  You lie for me," I tell him.

I think perhaps he has laughed once…I don't know.  The pain is gone completely.  I feel like I am floating…

I feel his hand on my hands, one at a time, moving them…  That's right…he only has one hand now…

And at the last, all I see is my mother, smiling…there is love in her eyes…

I will miss the unicorns…

"You won't," I hear.  It sounds miles off…

The words drift away…and I smile again...my mother is smiling back…

************************

A/N:  It took me a bit to get old Tom killed.  He just refused to die…but then whammo Harry just up and killed him!  I'm sorry if it's a little over-dramatic, but the whole point is that Voldemort was pretty twisted up by his attempts to achieve immortality.  It was driving him insane.

The unicorns factor in because their blood makes them fairly immortal.  He does not understand that their immortality is different than what he is searching for.  Theirs is something else, I guess.  Well, Harry got his chance with the unicorn there to feed him strength, and Voldemort wasn't on his guard because he was so focused on the immortality thing.  

There are a few more chapters left.  I can't do much more, or I'll be beating a dead horse, so please if you have comments do them soon.  Or else I won't have a chance to respond to them.

**BTW:****  Is Harry dead?  Is he not?  That's going to be discovered soon.  Just wait and see…**

_Hey, so also I really liked my bit about sheep in wolf's clothing.  I don't know if that's ever been said before, but really it just kind of came to me.  I couldn't help but feel a little proud when I wrote that line…_

Thanks for reading. I'm going to go hug my teddy bear now and have some hot chocolate.  That way I can work on my other story without getting too depressing.  I'll put responses to reviews in the next chapter.  I'm too tired to do it tonight, sorry.

  –Miss Laine


	12. Sleep On

Disclaimer:  I do not Harry Potter, nor any of JK Rowling's creations.

A/N:  Usually, I write a pre-chapter A/N, but I thought this chapter up on the fly, so to speak, and was typing before I'd even settled down into the right thoughts for 'Promises.'  Because of that, this chapter is a little more sarcastic than usual.  Of course, the character who is talking here is rather sarcastic, so it worked out.  

I'm terribly sorry about this, but Harry's having a little trouble right now.  The whole alive/dead thing seems to be too much for him, and he's being rather shy about coming back to life or proclaiming that he's dead.  Perhaps you'll know by the end of this chapter.  Perhaps not.  Perhaps you'll have to read the one after this.  Mwah ha ha!

*******************

Title:  Sleep On

*******************

He faded away.

No, idiot.  Not figuratively.  I don't _do _figuratively.

He faded away.

As in disappeared.

Left.

Vanished.

Right out from under my hands.

Well, hand…I only have one now, you know…

I'm not sure why.  He was just…gone.

I could have cared less, really.  I was in pain, more pain than I'd been in for at least a few days, dammit!

I stood up, wavering slightly.  Perhaps the blood loss was affecting me…after all, I had cut off my arm less than five minutes before…

Stupid Potter.  I've never met a more idiotic boy.  Killing himself on a chance…he had no way to be certain that turning the killing curse back on Voldemort would kill him…

Or perhaps he did.

As I said, I think the blood loss was affecting me.  I certainly felt strange…

All around me were piles of ash.  Where death eaters had fallen and burned.

Thank Merlin there were no other spies…

Thank Merlin that Potter told me what I had to do before he died…or whatevered.  I'm not entirely certain he is dead…

Of course, I think perhaps the blood loss has affected me more than I would have liked…

Because the most irritating…and sorrowful, I suppose…part of this whole night has been realizing that I no longer have a left hand.  It is a pile of ash now, lying on the ground.  Rather odd…

I tried to put Potter's limp hands on his chest when he stopped breathing.  I moved his right with my right hand, and then reflexively reached for his other hand with my left—only to miss by ten or so inches.  That's right…no hand there anymore.

I moved the other hand, placed them on his chest…and then the damn brat faded away…the literal way, remember…

And then I had to go explain to Albus why his surrogate grandchild was _not _coming back this time…

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The ceiling cracked.  That was the first thing that happened when I came into the hall.

It scared me, honestly.  And you will not find me admitting anything in any honest manner very often.

But the sickening crack of the enchanted ceiling scared me.

Because it was also the breaking of an old man's heart…

Albus's face when I staggered into the hall empty-handed was painful to see.

It did not bother me that his worry was not for me, though I was bleeding and in agony…  I understood at least a little…even if I never liked Potter…

Alright.

Perhaps I did _respect _Potter…

I never liked him.  Never.  Never.

I suppose the ceiling will never work again.  I had not realized it was so tied to Albus's emotions…

And the sickening crack and sudden dark black of the ceiling told me all I needed to know…

Pomfrey healed my wound.  She of course could not replace the lost limb, not without dark arts, and I rather prefer it this way, even if it will be a terrible hindrance.  It is difficult to brew potions with only one usable hand.

I should have thanked Voldemort sometime, for putting the dark mark on my non-dominant arm…

It would be hellish to have to learn to use my left hand to write…how in hell would I mark papers?  I couldn't possibly write all the scathing remarks I want if I had to struggle along with my left hand.

And I will never be caught with one of those self-writing quills.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When I was young and got my mark, I was a foolish teen who thought that power would solve my troubles.  I thought power would make Sirius Black and James Potter go away.  I though power would make girls flock to me…

Disturbing as it seems, Potter is the one that showed me that I was wrong.

I still shudder at the thought…

His mouth is what infuriated Voldemort the most, I know.  What drove him to the edge, I'm sure.  

How the brat managed it, I may never know.  Voldemort, despite his appearances, was too much of a coward to outright kill the brat.  Not when he was rational.  Not when his emotions were firmly under his control.

Because Potter was the key for him…Potter, the one that drove him from his body, brought him within a hair's breadth of death as a tiny baby.  Potter, he felt, was the secret.  The key to achieving immortality.

His sudden need for unicorns stemmed from Potter as well…because somehow Potter called them to himself.  Made them come dancing and running.  Albus wanted to know how Potter did it, as well…

I felt almost envy when I learned that Potter had shown the unicorns to that Weasley girl and Albus.  I have never seen a unicorn.  At least, not a _live _unicorn…not until the day the Dark Lord perished…and that one was chained…it was no free creature…

I think Voldemort was afraid that if he killed Potter, it would mean that he could never be immortal.  Because the Boy-Who-Lived would suddenly become the Boy-Who-So-Easily-Died.  And that would break his wishes…

He was so afraid of that…

The others were starting to see it…that perhaps their leader, their harsh and demanding commander was insane, driven to it by his mad need to live forever, to escape death…

To escape the inescapable.  

Though I would have said that if there was anyone capable of escape death, it would be Potter.  He had an uncanny ability to escape even the worst situations.

No more, it seems.  He has faded.  He is gone.  

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

When I was fourteen, my grandfather died.

I knew him somewhat well…he was a sour and bitter old man, much as I have become, except without the excessive age…

I did not understand death yet.

By that age, Potter had seen his first death, right in front of his eyes…

It was summer after fourth year.  My father got a note, and for once in his life he looked upset.  He forced me to go with him to the funeral, though I had never liked my grandfather.

The body was odd to me.  It didn't look human at all.  I couldn't believe that at some time it had been alive.

It looked like it had never moved in its life.

The deaths I saw later were not like this.  Those, I saw how they died…but in the end it was all the same.

The dead were never alive, every time.  They are odd shells, worrisome blanks that take up space in coffins under the ground.  

At fourteen, morbid curiosity was what made me want to see the corpse.  Death was a phenomenon that I did not understand yet.

I understood pain from my father.  I understood sorrow from my mother…

But death…Death!

Death is an empty shell staring up at you.  Death is a mystery that lies there mocking you, forcing you to try to figure out its meaning…

Because it must have a meaning…it _must._

Potter would laugh at the way I say that.  He would ask why anything must have a meaning.  Why I _have _to know something so desperately.

It is because his death is wrong.

He faded away.  No shell was left.  Nothing to mock me.  Nothing to mock his friends with.

Death is supposed to be constant.  It is supposed to leave something behind for you to stare fearfully at and wonder about.  It should not disappear and leave you wondering just what happened.

_(What did happen?)_

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"Holiday will be longer this year," Albus says heavily.  "We will give them another month."  

He sits behind his desk…the silver instruments are all gone now…even those that Potter did not break at the end of his fifth year, in that fit of anger.  That fit of living…

His desk is draped in black somehow.  Not fabric, but illusion black shadows cover the wood.  It is odd…the whole office is so dark and worn and…old…

"I am sure the students will be thrilled," I comment dryly.  They will of course not understand why the holiday is lengthened.  Albus is determined to keep this quiet until the school year starts.  Just in case…

Voldemort is gone.  But he will not be certain until another two months or so have passed.  Despite his faith in Potter, he needs to be certain.

Death is a mystery for him as well…no matter what quote he spouts off about the 'next great adventure.'

"Someone must tell Potter's friends," Minerva speaks up.  Her voice is hoarse…she has been crying.  As have most of the staff.

I refuse to even consider crying.  What a ridiculous waste of time.  It accomplishes less than nothing.  

"I will do that," Albus says heavily.  "After all, Harry was my responsibility."

"Ridiculous," I cut in.  He looks at me with an unreadable expression, and I force myself to sneer slightly.  It is now that they will need my cold advice.  Because they are too broken…

"Severus?" he questions.

"He was not your responsibility," I snap.  "And for your information, in case you had not picked up on that, he left the wards on his own.  On purpose."

"I should have been watching closer," Albus murmurs.  For the most powerful wizard now alive, he seems rather weak to me.

_(Weak or human?)___

"Potter was rather pig-headed about seeing this thing to the end," I tell him sharply.  "He would not have waited all summer like a good little boy.  He was sixteen!"

"Sixteen…" Minerva murmurs, and I know that I have said the wrong thing with that last comment.  Sixteen is too young…even I know that…

"Shacklebolt specifically stated that Potter went about ten feet out from the end of the wards…and in a very obviously-marked area.  He climbed a damn fence to get out of them!" I point out sharply.  I need to get them off the brat's age.  "Potter knew exactly what he was doing."

"Did he?" Albus asks.

"He could have been a Slytherin," I admit grudgingly.  "He manipulated Voldemort exactly where he wanted him to go."

"Manipulated?" Albus echoes.  "According to Harry, he wanted Tom to learn to understand him…"

"Perhaps," I admit.  The brat's need for understanding has never ceased to irritate me…well, now it has ceased, I realize.

"I will contact the Weasleys this evening," Albus says heavily.  "Mrs. Granger—Weasley—has been staying with them…for safety reasons…"

"I will require an assistant next school year," I put in.  I gesture with my stump-arm.  "I cannot brew potions as before."

"Of course," Albus says with a small smile.  "I know just the two…" 

There is just a little twinkle in his eye.  That means he will recover…he is not so broken as he seems…

There is reason to go on…

Perhaps Potter got to him as well, before all this…  

Certainly, he could have been a Slytherin…

"What did you promise him?" I ask before I can stop myself.  Albus smiles softly.

"I promised to take care of the students," he says softly.  "No more Tom Riddles."

"Of course," I say.  I do not believe it, but if anyone can prevent it, it is Albus Dumbledore.  Working hard under the promise of a dead sixteen year old boy.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Fred Weasley.  I never wanted to see him again.

And George Weasley as well.

I was so elated to see them gone…of course it could not last…

I cannot even tell them apart…

They give me weak smiles…they have learned the truth now…Albus told them yesterday evening…

"Ron won't come out of his room," one of the two says somberly.  As if I care how the boy is…

There are tears on both their faces that they continually wipe away, and their eyes are red.  I suppose they have not slept.

I don't recall them being close to Potter…

They have not told a single joke in four hours.  That is what frightens me…

"Hermione and he are going to move out to their home in a few weeks," the other comments.  "I'm not sure how they'll cope…"

"For some reason Albus thinks you will be worthy assistants," I cut in.  Enough wallowing, I think harshly.  Even I would not say that aloud…  "I do not have time for your tricks and carelessness."

"No," one murmurs.  Murmurs.  I have never heard either of them murmur before.

Just how well did they know the boy, I wonder?  They were two years older than him, I remember…

I suddenly hit the door in front of me.  Face-first.  Hard.

Of course.

I tried to open it with my nonexistent hand, and then continue on as if it had worked.

The two Weasleys wisely say nothing.  Just wait for me to properly open the door with my right hand.  And then they follow me into the classroom.  I have potions to brew, and I want to see just how useful they will be.

According to them, Lee Jordan has taken over their joke shop for now.  They need to be nearer their family, or some such.  At Hogwarts, they will be able to keep an eye on Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger—rather, Weasley, now—, the _married couple,_ without it seeming that way.

Albus confided this morning that he is afraid of what will happen with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley the younger.  They were closer to Potter than anyone could have possibly been…though I have my own suspicions about Miss Weasley.  I know Potter spent a great deal of time mooning over her…ridiculous teen hormones…

And being a hormonal and stupid teenager herself, I'm sure she had her own romantic ideas about him…

Perhaps they will make good assistants, I admit.  They seem to know what they're doing.  And after the sixth time I tried to stir a potion with a nonexistent hand I realized just how impossible it would be for me do this job alone.

Of course, I am thankful that the rest of me is still alive.  Though I will miss that hand…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

There is a glade…

Deep in the forest…

Green.  Time does not move here, it seems.  The sun always shines down…  

I can tell that this is a magic-filled place…there is something utterly inhuman about the clearing…

I cannot place it…

The grass wavers and whips around in a gentle breeze…

And then I see the unicorns…dancing and leaping…their energy and innocence is so incredible…

Even I cannot help but be moved…

I suppose I am crying in my sleep now, locked in this dream…I wish it would last forever…

But as I have learned…immortality is not to be had…forever is not so long after all…

And in the clearing a dark haired boy sleeps on…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A/N:  Well hmmm.  I can't really tell you if Harry's alive or not.  My metaphors are really driving me batty.  I mean, if I can't even figure them out…  Well, I suppose it'll all sort itself out soon…  Darn it, now I have to resuscitate or bury Harry in a later chapter…

Hmmm is all I have to say right now….

ALSO:  I know that you don't always have time to leave reviews.  Whatever your reasons, though, even just a word or two is welcome.  You don't have to sign it or whatever.  I just like to be able to tell who is and who isn't reading.

Thank you to Liz, Nadezhda, Tsaui, Shadowsfriend, Imaginaryfriendless, Ash Knight, Loony, AP Mom, and Kjkit.  Several of you have been reviewing each and every chapter, and it really does mean a lot to me.  Thank you.


	13. Family First

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of JK Rowling's creations.

A/N: Somehow this chapter got left out. I have no idea how. But here it is, in its rightful place. Sorry for that! --Miss Laine

'''''''''''''''''''''

Title: Family First

'''''''''''''''''''''

I know the instant I see him that it is bad news.

He is walking up the drive. If it were good news, he would have flooed over.

When it is bad news, he prefers to apparate to the end of the drive and then slowly walk up to the door. It gives him time to think. To collect his thoughts so he can say what he has to say.

He is walking very slowly…

It must be terrible news…

It must be about Harry…

We have not heard from Harry since his return to his relatives. According to Albus, it is too dangerous for him to write anymore, especially after Hedwig was killed en route between here and Harry's relative's home.

He took that very hard, as I remember. I honestly couldn't understand how Harry was so upset about it, but then Ronald told me a story.

' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' '

"Harry grew up in a cupboard, mum. He didn't have any friends until he met me because his cousin was a bully. He wouldn't let anyone be friends with Harry, and he used Harry as his punching bag. Harry spent most of his time doing chores, trying not to upset his relatives, and hiding in his cupboard. He told me he named a few of the spiders that lived in the cupboard," Ronald told me very seriously.

Despite the fact that I was listening to him very closely, it suddenly struck me that Ronald had grown up. And he was just fifteen, going on sixteen…

It seemed so odd just for that moment. He looked older than his father…

"Harry's first friend was Hagrid. But Hagrid's much older. And then Hagrid bought him Hedwig. His first and only pet. And unlike Hermione or I, Hedwig has never gotten upset at Harry or questioned him or anything. Hedwig never got on Harry's nerves or bothered him in any way. Hedwig was there for him every summer. And now he thinks he let her down. He thinks he killed her," he explained. "Hedwig has been Harry's only pet and one of his closest friends for five years, mum."

I didn't know what to say to that. I understood very clearly all of a sudden how Harry could miss his owl so much…

' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' '

It must be the worst news imaginable…he has paused at the gate.

He pretends he can't see me standing in the doorway, looking down at the ground…

"Albus," I call. "Please."

He obliges, coming the last thirty feet up the walk. I step aside to let him in the house.

"I'll make some tea, Albus," I say gently. He will tell me in his own time.

"Thank you, Molly," he says softly. I start.

The news cannot be that. But his voice says that it is…_that._ I don't know what to do.

My hands shake as I make the tea by hand. I don't want to use magic right now. I need my time to think just as much as Albus does.

When I get into the living room, I almost drop the tray with the teakettle and the cups.

Albus is crying.

His shoulders are shaking, his hands covering his face. He makes no sound. But there are tears tracking down his beard…

"Perhaps," I say softly. "Perhaps I should call my family down," I suggest.

He looks up, smiling weakly, and nods. "Yes," he finally says. His voice is shaky. I pour him a cup of tea as quickly as I can.

"Drink this," I tell him. "It will take a few minutes to find all of my children."

Though I say it will take minutes, it normally wouldn't. I could have them all assembled in less than thirty seconds.

But Albus needs time to compose himself. It would only frighten my children to see their Headmaster in such a state… I have never seen Albus cry before. Not even when Lily and James died, nor when any of his other friends died. He has never cried in front of anyone, as far as I know.

I'm sure his mother saw him cry, perhaps his brother…but he has never cried to us. Not like he is now…

I start up the stairs slowly. This is not the time to shout or call aloud. It is a time for silence.

Ronald is in his room. He is doing homework, actually.

It is odd to think that he is married. It never crossed my mind that he would be the second of my children to marry, when there are four sons older than him that are nowhere close to getting married. Bill is in his late twenties. Ronald is just sixteen.

He does his homework now. He didn't used to. Instead, he left it until the last minute and did it in the two days before school restarted. But Hermione has been an incredible influence on him… Harry as well…

I think Ronald has learned the value of doing things when you can…because Harry…

I knock softly on the wood to get his attention.

He looks up sharply. Somehow, he already knows that there is trouble. His face is pale and drawn.

He looks better than he did at the end of the school year, though. Harry would hate to know how long Ronald took to recover from the school year…he spent three days in bed, sleeping and eating off and on. He needed the break so badly…but I know he would have forgone it if Harry had needed him in any way. "Mother?" he asks.

He pushes his homework aside and stands up, alarmed. I smile softly. "Ronald, Albus is downstairs," I tell him. Ronald might have run down the stairs energetically before…before last year…but now he just nods. It breaks my heart to see him so…aged…

"I will floo Hermione," he says softly. I nod.

"Thank you," I say. "I'll be down as soon as I've rounded up the others."

He leaves, heading down the stairs softly, wearily.

My next stop is the twin's room. They have been staying at the Burrow because of the danger of Voldemort. It is much safer for them here, especially since they started helping the Order develop weapons for the war.

There is a small explosion from behind their closed door. I have to knock a little louder to get their attention, and the door opens after a few moments. "Yes, mum?" George asks. He looks tired as well, but not like Ronald.

A cloud of smoke curls out of the room. George turns for a moment. "Fred!" he says sharply.

The door opens further. "Albus is downstairs," I say. "Please wait down there while I get everyone else," I ask.

George does not question me. Even at eighteen, almost nineteen, he listens to me very seriously. "All right," Fred says softly.

They start down the stairs.

Percy is at his desk. Percy.

He came home because of Harry, though Harry and Percy will not admit it. As I have heard from several sources, Harry showed up at the Ministry sometime over the past year and spoke with him.

Percy sent us an apologetic letter that evening, and then he quit at the ministry and was home. "Percy, Albus is waiting downstairs to speak with us," I tell him. He looks up and sets his quill down.

"I'll be down in a moment," he promises.

Something is very different about Percy. He is no longer pompous, no longer at all arrogant or surly. He seems to have found humility…or perhaps Harry has shown it to him. I wonder what they talked about that day…

"Bill, Charlie," I say softly. They are sharing a room right now, since they are not here often. I suddenly realize how odd it is that they have not been on guard duty for three days…and I know without a doubt now what Albus is going to say…

"Coming, mother," Bill says. He shares a short look with his brother, and they get up quickly.

"I'll be down after I speak with Virginia," I tell them. "Please get a message to your father," I add.

Charlie nods that he has heard.

And now I must stop at the room that will be the hardest…

Because as much as Ginny says she understands, she does not…she refuses to accept, as Ronald has…

She has fought it the entire way. _It._Harry's position. His _inevitable _conclusion, as everyone seems to see it…

"Ginny," I say, pushing the door open gently. She is on the window seat. Looking out at the sun…it is filtering through the trees and shining on her hair, lighting it up like a wildfire…

She turns at my voice, and I see that her face is wet with tears… "I had a dream," she tells me. "There was a clearing… It was so real…"

I will speak alone with her later…but now… "Albus is downstairs," I say. She doesn't need to hear more. She stands, straightens her clothes, and nods.

"All right," she says. "All right."

' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' '

Virginia leans against my chest as she tries to steady her breath. "I had a dream," she says softly.

"Hmm," I say softly. She needs to talk. She cannot keep it so tightly bottled…

"There was a clearing in the woods," she says, her words empty and distant. There is a child's wonder in her words. She is not here, in the Burrow, clinging to me tightly. She is somewhere else, with someone else… "Time stood still…" she whispers. I stroke her hair gently. My little girl has grown up so much…but it is good to know that she still needs me. Now that she has no one else…

"Ginny," I say softly. I need her to know that I will never abandon her. Old age may someday claim me, but if she needs me even then, I will not leave her…

"Did you know that he took me to see the unicorns?" she cuts in suddenly. I nod, though she cannot see it. She mentioned something about it in a letter home last year… "They were like liquid, flowing over the field…but when they startled, they turned to a roaring river…they were like crashing waves, wearing him down…"

Her voice trails off… I want to hold her so tightly, and my heart tightens as her fingers clutch at my arms. She is so alone now…

"He showed me that," she says softly… "He _showed _me hope…"

' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' '

I only watch Ronald. He is grieving with his wife. He does not need me so much anymore…because he has someone to share his life with, someone that he understands deeply and who understands and loves him in return…

I wonder if Harry planned it to be like this…for Ron and Hermione to have each other to turn to…

But he holds her tightly, as she weeps hard into his shoulder. It comforts him more to hold onto her than to be held. Because it shows him that he still has someone that needs him so desperately…

I hold no illusions about Harry and Ron's relationship. Everyone tells me how much Harry needed Ron, how much he needed someone to take care of him all though his sixth year at Hogwarts…

But Harry did not _need _Ron. Not like that.

Ron needed Harry. Ron needed to have someone to take care of. He needed to know that he made a difference…

And now he will make that difference to Hermione…to his wife…to the woman that he will spend the rest of his life with…

Though I will never admit it to anyone, Ronald is the one I am the most proud of right now…he has proven himself a man at such a tender age…

He _does _understand…

I do not say a word. I just watch them for several minutes, making sure that I am not needed. I know I won't be…but I cannot help it…he is my son still…my little boy…my sweet little boy…

My other sweet little boy is dead.

' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' '

Charlie is my next stop. Bill has already left to go to his wife…she knew Harry, too…

Charlie sits in his room. There is a little model of a Hungarian Horntail stomping around the desk next to him. He is watching it, a little smile on his face…

"Charlie," I say softly, to get his attention. He gives me his grin…

That is what I love most about my second-eldest. Charlie has always had the most incredible smile. It is as if nothing could get him down.

In this war I have seen him bleeding, and as much as it tears my heart up to see my boy hurt, all he ever does is smile. He grins at the others and laughs. Makes comments about how much worse the dragons are…

"Hullo, mum," he says. The grin is not as strong today. And he does not joke. He just shifts, so that he is sitting on one end of the bed.

I sit down next to him. He may be twenty-five now, but he is still my boy. He lets me put my arm around him and pull him against my body. He is the shortest of my sons, just a few inches taller than me, and his head rests on my shoulder just perfectly.

"Are you going to be all right?" I ask him softly. He breathes out softly. I know his eyes are still on the little model dragon.

"You know, I didn't know him that well," he says in a whisper almost. His husky voice is hard to make quiet, but it is now. "He struck me as a good person right off the bat, though. It was like a little brother coming home. He was just so lost that summer when I first met him…"

I remember that. Harry came over just before the Quidditch World Cup. He was so amazed by our family…shocked by how our family interacted… I was dismayed at how shocked he was when I hugged him the first time… "Harry was something special," I say.

"How is Ron?" Charlie asks. I wish I could lie.

"Grieving," I say. "He and Hermione will make it through this together…" I trail off as Arthur sticks his head in a moment. He surveys us a moment, eyes tired and sad, and then gestures. He is going to speak with Ginny, I think. My next stop is Percy.

"Go," Charlie says. He is such an incredible boy, my boy… Nothing warms my heart more than to know how incredible my boys have turned out…all of them…

And Ginny, despite having six older brothers…she is the young woman I always knew she would be…she just needed a few more years…

"I expect to see you at dinner," I say gently. "My children will not starve themselves," I tell him. "Harry wouldn't want to know that he'd caused us so much pain."

"I'll go talk to Ginny with dad," he says. "Everyone needs someone to hang onto."

"Yes," I say softly. "Everyone does."

Except for Harry. Harry…did he really have anyone to hang onto??

' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' '

Percy is back at his desk, working. If I did not know my boy like I do, I would think he was unaffected…

But the tear stains on his work betray him.

He gestures to a chair. Percy has never been big on physical displays of affection. He prefers to talk through things. Even the night he apologized to Arthur and I in person, he did not hug us or cry on our shoulders. He explained his new understanding very calmly and clearly, and then went back to his room. The next morning, breakfast was ready for us all when we got downstairs, and I did not have to do a single chore for the next two weeks.

"I know you know Harry talked to me," he says. He lays down his quill and lays his hands flat on the desk. They are trembling.

"Yes," I admit.

"He got permission from Dumbldore, I guess," he explains. "There was an auror there the entire time, just watching Harry to make sure he wasn't taken. He put up silencing spells when we spoke."

"I had heard that he went to the Ministry last year," I tell him.

"Harry and I talked for five hours almost," he says. "I was too pig-headed to understand him sooner." He clears his throat. He must be incredibly upset if he cannot keep his voice steady for long. "He was trying to tell me something about the nature of power…and I refused to listen. Fudge had me so mixed up about what was important that I refused to understand." He laughs shortly. "And then he told me this story…he just smiled so knowingly and searched me with those eyes…"

He sighs and pulls out a photograph from behind his papers. It is of the family, of all of us… "You know, I didn't understand what I was giving up when I was trying to find power," he tells me. "I thought I would find what I wanted if I worked to gain authority and power. I wanted to be in charge of something. If I could, I wanted to have my own employees to boss around. I thought that would make me happy. And then Harry told me about a boy named Tom Riddle… And what power had done to him… What Tom wanted was driving him insane, Harry told me. And now it has killed him, just as Harry said it would…"

"I'm glad you listened to him," I tell him. He starts laughing again, bitter, sad laughs.

"I listened to him all right. But I didn't understand him," he tells me. "Not then. It took me weeks to understand what he'd said, all the things he told me in those five hours."

"Then—" I start to say, shocked. "Then _why _did you come home?" I wonder. He came home that night! What could have…

"Harry threatened me," Percy says with a small grin. "Well…not so much _threatened _as told me something very frightening. I hadn't thought of it before, not really."

"And?" I ask. I am curious as to what could have made such a difference…

"He said, 'Percy, they could die. They could die thinking that you betrayed them. They could die and your last words to them will have been angry and unjust,'" Percy says, quoting. He must have those words memorized. "'I have seen death, Percy, and it is not a beautiful thing. It is a permanent thing. There is no turning back. There are no last words. When they are gone, they will _never _come back.'"

The words chill me. I can barely imagine Harry saying them. How much could he have been hurting, to say those words? "And you came back," I say.

He nods. "Exactly. He was right…and then those few weeks after I first came back I thought about the rest of what he said. He was right…"

How did Harry know? How did he know what would make Percy come home? I wish I could have talked to my little dark-haired boy one more time…

' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' '

Fred and George are speaking with Albus when I come back down the stairs. It is amazing how this war has matured them. They still laugh and joke, but they no longer act before they think. Everything they do is planned.

They look up at the same time as I come down. "Mum," they say at the exact same time.

"I have asked if they would like to take positions at Hogwarts," Albus says softly. "Severus is in need of assistance."

"What happened to him?" I ask. Albus said nothing about Severus's condition. Just that he was the one…that brought the news back…

"The dark mark was affected by the killing curse," Albus explains. "He was forced to cut his left arm off just past the mark, and it has left him—ah—short-handed."

His joke is morbid. I have never head Albus tell such a morbid joke. "He needs an assistant to help with classes and brewing potions," George says to get past that awkward moment.

"Immediately I thought of these two," Albus explains.

"We've accepted," they say at the same time. I smile.

"And how are you two really?" I ask. They always can make me smile. My boys…

"Well," George beings,

"We've been better," Fred adds,

"But we're more worried about ickle Ronnikens," George ends. The once insulting nickname for Ronald only holds concern and love now. Even Ron laughs when they call him that. It used to make him so angry…

But then when he was here, for Christmas last year, and Harry came as well… He started to get mad about it, and then Harry spoke up quietly.

"You know, I've never had a nickname before. My relatives call me 'boy.'"

Ron smiles now when he hears the nickname. I'm afraid if he hears it again, though, that he will weep.

"I suppose we should get a note out to Lee," George speaks up.

"Actually, hold off on that," Albus says. "I'd rather not spread anything about this until I am sure that Voldemort is gone…it would be too demoralizing if everyone were to know, and then _he _were to come back…"

"I thought you said that Severus said there was a pile of ash for his body," I say, slightly alarmed. Albus smiles.

"We have been deceived before. I do not want that to be case now."

He stands. He has to leave, I see. "Good day, Albus," I say. He gives me a weak smile. "Thank you for doing this in person."

"I couldn't have let it be done any other way," he tells me.

And then he is gone. He apparates straight out of the Burrow.

The wards should have stopped him.

But somehow I know that Albus has never really followed the rules…

I wish Harry could have been the same…

' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' '

There is only one person left to comfort now. One person to whisper assurances to…

Arthur finds me outside on the wooden bench seat. It is my turn to cry.

He holds me tightly, my husband, my love…

And together we cry for the son that we have lost…

' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' '

A/N: This chapter is just about family. Pretty much about the Weasley family's reaction to things. From what I figure, Mrs. Weasly is totally devoted to her family. Her children are the most important thing to her, and she puts them above all else. The little bit at the end where she starts her grieving for Harry is intentionally short. Her first priority is for her children. Then, it is for herself. And then she can grieve for the son she has lost.

So somehow I lost this chapter somewhere. I was reorganizing things and when… 'hey wait – what the heck's this doing here and not on ? So then I checked through it and posted it!

This whole story is meant to have a rather melancholy tone to it. It just is that way. But that's because of what it's really about…which I'll really say sometime later. I don't want to give everything away, now do I?


	14. Won't be Coming Home

Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own it. As usual.

A/N: This side-tracks a little, so sorry to those who really want to know if Harry's alive or dead. It will definitely be the next chapter! This one takes things in a different direction for a bit. It's a little shorter than the rest because it's just a little thing that I wanted to fit in somewhere.

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Title: Won't be Coming Home

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Mother is crying again. I wish she'd stop. No one cares about her ridiculous act.

It isn't as if she really loved Father _so much_ or anything. It isn't as if she _watched _him die.

He just didn't come home.

And then instead my godfather came. He told us, in the strictest of confidence, what had happened.

I didn't really care.

Mother 'broke down.' Ran to her room, weeping, face covered.

I rolled my eyes. Ridiculous. Pathetic. I could care less if she had any love for him. I despised him.

My godfather told me he was very sorry.

_But__ he's not._

If he was, father would be coming home.

0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0

The plan was I would turn spy my seventh year. It would be too suspicious to do it sixth year, not with the rumor of my speaking to Potter going around. I would have been killed.

My godfather was also teaching me all he knew. He did not want to lose me, even if he never said as much.

I spent the rest of sixth year, after I made my decision, trying to prepare myself for what was to come. Truthfully, I didn't want to have to become a death eater and to risk my life as a spy. I hadn't done anything wrong.

_Except beat a boy almost to death…the very boy that saved you._

No one questioned why I wanted to spy. I wonder how many knew that I was the one that put their hero in the infirmary for a week. Certainly Potter never told them…

I never told anyone I was afraid. I never told anyone how scared I was about the mark. My godfather had shown me his already, and the ugly and marred flesh on his forearm scared me…

I have to admit that I'm rather a coward. Most Slytherins are. We'd rather hide and trick and run than stay and fight and be hurt. There are few exceptions…my godfather is close, but certainly he is no Gryffindor…

Not like Potter, who refuses to run…rather, _refused_ to run…

I don't like pain. I don't like to see my skin marred. It scares me. Because it tells me I could die…

0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0

My godfather is missing his left lower arm. I notice that almost immediately, though he keeps it deep in his cloak and robes.

My eyes are drawn to it. "A small price," he says softly. He sits as I gesture to a chair. Mother is still somewhere, pretending she is heartbroken. I couldn't care less.

"What happened?" I ask. He smiles that sarcastic, bitter smile that he always uses.

"Potter gambled and won," he explains. "The Dark Lord is dead. So are his followers."

"You're alive," I point out. He shifts and holds up his stump-arm slightly.

"Yes," he says. "I am."

"What happened to father?" I ask. I need to know. Even if I loathed the man, I need to know.

"He was killed. The mark's reaction to the killing curse meant for Potter killed him and all others with the mark," he says. He shifts his left arm back into hiding again. "Potter told me how to avoid death. If had been a few moments slower…"

"Father is dead," I say steadily. He hears the question.

"I couldn't tell him," he says, as apologetic as he will ever be. "I could not let him live. You must understand that."

"Of course," I say.

_But__ I don't, I don't._

0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0

"I won't have to spy now," I say suddenly. That makes me smile. A huge burden has just lifted away.

My godfather smiles as well. It is almost a happy smile. "True," he says. "There is nothing left to spy upon."

"Is it all finished, then?" I ask. "Is it all gone?"

"The curse destroyed every last trace of the Dark Lord," he confirms.

"And Potter…?" I press. My godfather looks impressed that I have caught onto that so quickly.

"Was affected as well. His scar started bleeding badly…he was dying quickly…but then…" he trails off, looking confused.

"What?" I press.

"He faded."

Now what could that mean? My godfather is not one for fancy metaphors. He will either say something literally or not at all. So when he says Potter faded…does that mean _faded?___

"Was he dead when he—er—faded?" I ask. Perhaps my godfather's brain has been affected as well…

"He had stopped breathing," my godfather says, taking his time with his words. "He was covered in blood, and the torture had already made him weak…but he faded. So I cannot be certain of anything," he adds. I have never seen him this uncertain about anything.

It as is his senses assured him that Potter was dead…but something else inside of him is saying that he is not…

"What will happen now?" I ask.

"There is no evidence left of your father being a death eater," he says. "The estate is yours, then, six weeks from now, when you may confirm your father's 'disappearance' from the wizarding world. It depends on your father's will, as well."

I nod. "Thank you for coming," I say. I know his visit is at an end.

He grimaces. "Albus says he has found me a new potions assistant," he tells me. "He was smiling just a bit, so I am afraid of whom he might have found."

"At least you'll be able to teach in peace now," I say, trying for a half-smirk.

He gives a curt nod.

But I am still a little upset about how he has let my father die. I didn't love my father, but he _was _my father. "No more Potter," I tell him.

He pales. I know how much that will bother him. Potter has not been a bother to him since the end of fifth year.

He leaves without another word.

He is headed home. To Hogwarts.

Of course, my father will not be coming home.

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A/N: I told you. Short. It's just Malfoy's response. His life has been changed, too, and I didn't think I should leave him out. Earlier he talked about how he hated his dad and whatnot, but I mean he still was his father. That counts for something.

The next one will be longer, because it's hugely important. I couldn't imagine it being shorter than like five or six thousand words. We'll see. I'm supposed to be studying for my statistics final right now, but one-way tests of independence or whatever they are aren't my favorite thing. Chi-square tests are annoying as well.

**Thranx**Wow. I love your thorough reviews of this! They were wonderful to read and I loved your input. It was kind of odd because when I first started writing this, everyone wanted Harry to live, and now a lot of people say it just seems right for him to stay dead. Well, you'll have to wait and see. That chapter should be up tomorrow morning at the latest.

I will have the next chapter up before I head home. Perhaps another as well. That means I won't be leaving you for the summer not knowing whether Harry's dead or alive. J


	15. The Dreamer

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. He and all other creations associated with him belong to JK Rowling. Like they always have.

A/N: Here it is. The big one. _The _chapter. Okay, I'm getting a little over-dramatic. But I've quit stalling. Harry's fate is actually in this chapter. So you can't threaten me or whatever. You'll know by the end of this chapter.

Oddly enough, I have the first paragraphs of the next three or four chapters started already…who knows which ones I'll actually get around to finishing, though…it all depends on how this chapter ends…

"""""""""""""""""""""""

Title: The Dreamer

"""""""""""""""""""""""

There is a clearing in the woods.

Time is standing still. Only the silver ribbon of water moves, the sound muted.

The grass wavers on a soft breeze. I can feel the warm air… The trees are whispering as well, the soft air gently rushing through their branches.

My feet don't make a sound in the grass as I walk forward.

There are unicorns ahead of me. They are dancing.

I want to join their dance…I want to feel how they feel, living and breathing and dancing all of the time.

Moonlight filters down, casting the unicorns and myself in a blue-tinted glow. And the dance continues.

It has been happening since time began, and the dance will not end anytime soon…but even it is not eternal…

I try to join in. I lift my arms in joy and twirl around, long hair whipping in a circle.

But the unicorns move away. They continue their dance farther down the clearing. I cannot dance with them…

The water of the stream is cool and wonderful, though…I dance with it instead, relishing the feeling of the slightly chilly water rushing over my legs. It is life, too. It is its own dance.

I laugh aloud as I dance in the water. I feel so alive…

Something shifts in the tall grass to my right and I whirl, frightened…

But it is the dark haired boy…man? He is always there. And he is always sleeping…

" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "

My mother comes into my room. She has heard me crying.

"Did you dream?" she asks. I nod, and when she sits next to me I lean into her, needing that warmth and love.

"The same dream…" I murmur. "He was sleeping still."

She knows what I am talking about. I have told her about this dream all week. Ever since…

She says that she has dreamed it as well…but she never sees more than the clearing and the boy sleeping, because it is what I have described to her the most. "It is just a dream, love," she says softly. "Let it comfort you."

But the boy sleeps in the dream! How can that be comforting? I want him to wake up! I want him to join the dance and show me he's living and happy! Why does he just sleep??

"I don't understand Ron anymore," I say, instead of asking my questions. "I don't get it. How does he?"

"Ron had more time to understand," she tells me softly. "Harry…" she can't finish that right away. Even now, a week later, it is still too hard to talk about it… "Harry helped him to understand…"

"He showed me the unicorns," I say. "He never showed Ron."

"Ron didn't need to see them, I don't think," she says. "He has Hermione. She is his unicorn."

"I don't understand," I admit. I feel like I spend a lot of time saying that. But I am just reaching fifteen. Surely I am allowed to not understand some things?

"What did you feel when you saw the unicorns?" she asks.

I think back, remembering the moment they came out of the trees… "I felt alive," I say. "I wanted to laugh and dance with them."

"Hope," mother says softly.

She is right. It was hope that I felt… "But—"

"Hermione is Ron's hope," she says. "They have each other to believe in and live for. I think Harry showed them to you to give you hope," she finishes.

"He showed the Headmaster too," I say. Did the headmaster need something to believe in too? Was he just as lost as I? An old man, separated by age from his peers, and a girl, younger than the others…did both of us need the hope that Harry brought us?

"You need hope to live, Ginny," mother whispers in my ear.

"Then why does Ron just _let _Harry be dead?" I ask, frustrated. "He can't be dead!"

Mother is crying now. There are tears on her face.

It's too bad they're not for Harry, but for me. Why do I need tears? "I wish you could have had a few more years before this happened," she murmurs. "Just a few more years…"

" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "

The young man is sleeping still, stretched out on the grass. There is a smile curving his perfect lips, and his dark hair is mussed and fluttering in the soft breeze. He looks content, but he never wakes.

The unicorns are dancing for _him,_ I realize. They dance for the boy that sleeps in their clearing and never wakes…

I want to scream at him. I want to shout and rage until he opens his eyes and sits up.

Because I want to see those eyes again, those brilliant green eyes. I want to see them alive and happy.

I don't care about the scars on his body. The thick mark on his cheek seems barely noticeable to me now.

I can see his other scars as well…he has only the grass to cover him…

But the scars don't matter…I just want to see him wake up. I want him to tell me that everything's all right.

But all he does is sleep, that smile on his lips…

" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "

"You _are _keeping him, Ginny," Harry says.

Harry the portrait, that is. He still won't speak to anyone else, but he and I have talked more than once.

I have come to Hogwarts for the memorial. It is going to be quiet, clandestine. The headmaster doesn't want to let anything out yet. Just in case Voldemort is still alive…I wish he would add 'just in case Harry is still alive,' but he doesn't.

The portrait has been moved to by the main entrance, at the top of the first flight of stairs. There used to be a painting of some old woman…nobody remembers who…and I suppose a few hundred years from now no one will remember just who the boy in the painting is.

But for now the portrait is there, smiling and not moving for anyone but me. When he sees me alone, he smiles and waves at me. "Ginny," he says every time. "Tell me, was it sunny today?"

And no matter if it's been raining, I tell him that the sun shone down all day long. That the sky was deep blue and the air was warm and perfect.

" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "

The boy shifts in his sleep. He has never done that before.

Every night has been the same…the young man just sleeps on…never moving. The only indication of his living has been the rise and fall of his chest…a steady rhythm that never changes…

Until now. As I watch, he moves again, stretching out in the grass and then relaxing.

His dark hair flutters as he again stretches a little, then draws his knees forward, so his legs are bent. His smile grows.

I want to touch his skin, to see if he is as warm and alive as he looks. He is so close…

" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "

The professors are all here, though it is summer.

Only Trelawney is missing…but there is a rumor circulation about her… That perhaps it was more than just 'fate' keeping her from the memorial…

Some say she has killed herself somehow…because she has fulfilled her part in the prophecy that Harry completed…I don't know. I prefer to think that she has left Hogwarts for good, off to make death predictions about someone else.

No one really thinks about Trelawney, though. I certainly don't. She did nothing but bring torment to a poor sixteen and a half year old boy. She tormented him in his classes with omens of his impending death…omens that were undoubtedly false, but conclusions that were not…

When I manage to make it to the great hall, the first thing I notice is that the ceiling is black…not because of night sky or dark clouds, but because it is broken…there are only old support beams and cobwebs up there now…

And Dumbledore is at the head of the hall…he wears black for the first time I can remember…there is nothing sparkly or cheery about what he wears…his cap is faded black and his robes are rough and heavy.

A scowl flits across my face for a moment. Snape is here, and I know that the man helped plenty of times in Harry's tortures. Oh, I know he had to, in order to keep up his role as a spy…but I will not forgive him…

It looks like something is wrong with his left arm…he keeps it buried in his black robes…

He does not look so sour today…perhaps even he was a little changed by Harry's life…not that he would ever admit such a thing…

Ah…his left arm ends just past his elbow…that is what is wrong…

The left is the one that carried the dark mark…how fitting that he should lose it, though I'm sure his thoughts were on how inconvenient it would be…at least, that's what he would say if someone asked…

The rest of the staff are all in black, almost all in tears. Pomfrey is here, and I wonder when I last saw her outside of the infirmary for any reason other than injury… She treated him every time he was brought back, dragging him from death time and again, just to have to watch him be sucked ever closer…until now, that is…she will never heal his wounds again…no one can…

There is a black casket in the middle of the hall, where the staff table usually rests. It has golden handles and emerald inlay, and it sits amid piles of white lilies and verdant greenery.

But the casket is empty! There is no body to be had…and for a few moments I want to shout, to demand why everyone must believe so much that he is dead…he cannot be dead, he cannot be dead, he cannot…

My eyes are drawn to the podium at the end of the hall. Dumbledore steps up to it, robes swishing softly around his feet. He clears his throat slowly, beard trembling slightly…

Everything about him says that he is now old, that he will not live much longer…

Nevertheless, he will recover…he will go on, will teach another generation and another of hopeful, eager students. He will find his peace in their innocence…

"I wish I could take it all back," he says.

For a moment, I think perhaps the words are mine…

"I wish I could trade with Harry every minute of every day. I would have done anything to save him, but…he was so weak, so tired, towards the end…and I couldn't do anything to stop it," he admits.

I look around at all the solemn faces…I want to scream at them even more now….

"Harry would never have let me taken this burden from him," Dumbledore continues, "And I fear that perhaps I could have done more… Harry was like a grandchild for me…I took so much heart in his love and trust in me, no matter the circumstances."

He is crying now…or at least there are tears on his face, dripping down…

I can see Remus in the crowd near the very front…he looks pale, wasting away…I wonder what he will do now. He is alone, so alone…

"When Sirius was murdered, I thought I had lost that trust…but I was wrong. Harry's understanding and love went beyond any mistake that I could make, and I will forever remember how intelligent and understanding Harry was…Harry was my lifeline in this time of strife, my example of just what I was trying so hard to save…what we were all trying so hard to save…"

Dumbledore stops again, swallowing. It is hard for him to speak…but he is doing it because none of the others can…Ron and Hermione couldn't because it was too much for them, and Remus…Remus has not spoken much in days, I have heard…

I wish they had asked me…I would have wanted to speak…to shout at them all…

But they didn't…and I understand. I understand.

"But now he is gone, and I cannot help but think that there is something wrong with a world where a sixteen year old boy must die while a man ten times his age lives on as before, uninjured except in his heart," Dumbledore finishes.

"Harry made me promise to look after the students at Hogwarts," he tells us. Ah, I think…Harry and his promises…he asked only one of each person, and I have not heard of anyone refusing him…

I am trying to keep mine…to keep Harry…but it is so hard…when everyone tells me that he is gone…

"I will always look after my students…our students…as long as I am able. Harry asked just this one ting from me, and the least I can do is keep the promise…I will never feel that my debt has been paid…"

Dumbledore chokes on his tears now, the sorrow so pronounced that others start to weep afresh. Few, I imagine, have ever seen Dumbledore so…broken…

He looks out at us with that sad, sad smile, that look I've often…had often…seen on Harry's face…Only the eyes are different… "I have no words of wisdom or courage for you," he admits. "I have no promises or encouragement. A sixteen year old boy was killed. I don't know how to make that better."

Dumbledore steps away from the platform. A hand ghosts over his eyes for a moment as he walks away…and then the hall is dead silent once more…

My anger blossoms again. What is wrong with them? What is wrong with them all?

I barely realize that I have shouted something…probably nonsensical…and then I am running, fleeing the hall…

The forest is in front of me, welcoming me, giving me sanctuary…

" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "

The boy is sleeping still, but every now and then he shifts, stretching a little or some other small movement…

He looks so alive…he is tanned almost, the darker color helping to hide some of his scars…

His hair has grown as well, and the breeze has a little more trouble playing with it…

The unicorns are further down in the clearing, playing and leaping and dancing their dance…

It is so silent here, but the silence is fitting…is right…

I want to touch the boy again, to make him respond, to open his eyes and show me that he's awake…

But it is like before…it is so hard to reach him, so hard to stretch my fingers out…

And of course it is just a dream…just a foolish dream…

" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "

There is something warm touching my arm…

As soon as the thought goes through my head my eyes snap open and I jump away…only to stop and stumble as I realize just _what _was touching me…

It is a unicorn…a young one, still a little golden…

It whickers to me…a soft friendly sound. I look around…I am somewhere in the Forbidden Forest…I don't know where…

I ran without looking back, without slowing or even really opening my eyes…

And then I cried, wept all the tears of frustration and anger until I must have drifted off to sleep…only to dream again of the boy…

The unicorn snorts at me, as if telling me to hurry up. It stops a hoof, looking impatient, and I step closer to it. It could run away at any moment…

But it doesn't seem to want to run, and as I stand breathless it reaches forward and takes my robe's sleeve in its teeth and tugs.

It wants me to follow it.

I don't have much choice in the matter, it seems. The unicorn drags me along until I follow on my own.

" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "

There is a clearing…

There is a clearing in the woods.

Time is standing still. Only the silver ribbon of water moves, the sound muted.

The grass wavers on a soft breeze. I can feel the warm air… The trees are whispering as well, the soft air gently rushing through their branches.

My feet don't make a sound in the grass as I walk forward.

There are unicorns ahead of me. They are dancing.

I want to join their dance…I want to feel how they feel, living and breathing and dancing all of the time.

And this time it is all real…the unicorns ahead of me dance in the warm sunlight, and I step forward, eager to join them…

But my escort holds me back with his horn, keeping me from joining in the dance, the hope…

I can feel my heart weakening…I cannot join the dance, they won't let me join them…

But then I remember in my dreams…

Merlin, it can't be real…

But after all this time, all this time denying the others their peace, denying Harry his death, I cannot deny my hopes…

The unicorn lets me go, somehow knowing that I understand, and I want him join the others in leaps and bounds, dancing…

The grass is so tall…how will I find anything in this?

I'm frantic as I search, starting by the silver stream and wading through the tall grass…

" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "

"Ginny,' I hear someone say softly…

My heart is in my throat. I want to run, to find the source of that one word…

And he is there, lying on the grass…pushing himself up so that he can see me…

And he is smiling that smile…those lips curved up in a soft sweet expression…

Any moment now…any moment now I will wake up, and it will all be another dream…

"Ginny," he says again. "I never told you, and I should have…"

I'm afraid to speak. I creep closer, afraid I'm going to break the spell, and suddenly the boy blushes.

He has never done that before…

He shifts…he's doing something…and suddenly I realize…he was embarrassed because he was still nude…

Somehow he's covered himself with a cloth wrapped around his waist…of course, a dream can do anything it pleases…

"Ginny, I should have told you," he says again. I am so close now…

His eyes stared deep into my eyes as I reach out a hand…

Any moment now, he will fade…

Any moment now…

" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "

He does not fade.

His hand reaches out to me, capturing my hand in his warm fingers…

"Ginny, I've loved you for over a year," he says solemnly. "And I'm so sorry that I never told you…"

He's not fading…he's here, he's real…

He brings his hand up to my face as I fall to my knees next to him.

"Harry," I whisper… "I missed you, Harry…"

"It's okay," he says softly…it's going to be all right, I can feel it…

"Harry." It's all I can manage, half-sobbing as I am. My words have not broken the spell…it is real, so real…

"I love you, Ginny," he whispers, mouth close to my ear…

"""""""""""""""""""""""

A/N: Well, the first time I wrote this A/N it was to say sorry that Harry died. But then reread it and I didn't have the heart to kill him off like that. So I guess there will be a bit of happily ever after ending to this. And there will be several more chapters to deal with that, I'm sure…

I figured Ginny needed to find Harry. She's been dreaming about him every night, and I kind of figure he's been hanging out in the clearing recovering or whatnot. We'll see how it goes…I mean just two minutes ago Harry was dead at the end of this. And now he's not. Argh. Makes it hard to keep everything together. But I have all summer to work on it, right?

This wasn't meant to follow canon or anything. It was just a depressing little story I wrote out, trying to keep the characters at least somewhat true to themselves. There may be one more chapter to this, but as I'm leaving for home in…an hour and a half…I won't have it up for a while. Hang in there and I'll be back with new chapters and now stories before you know it!

Thank you so much to my wonderful reviews, and I regret that I do not have the time to respond to you here. I've been too busy writing this and packing all of my bags that I just don't have enough time left to write responses. I would like to mention names though: **Ash Knight, Loony, Shadowsfriend, Thranx, Nadezhda, **you've all reviewed so regularly and with such wonderful words! I'm so glad that you at least enjoyed this a little, and thank you also to all of those that at least reviewed once. Each word and every suggestion means a great deal to me, and I'm glad that you took the time to give me your input!

Have a great summer! --Miss Laine


	16. Wishes Lost

Disclaimer: Nope, don't own it.

A/N: This was a lot more difficult than most chapters. I had to figure out just how I wanted this to end, and then I realized that I'd decided long ago. You'll see. Whether you like it or not, it is up to you. You can stop with chapter fifteen, or this one. Gives two different endings to the same initial story. I just think it wasn't finished where I had left it for the summer. Tell me what you think, please! - Miss Laine

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Epilogue: Wishes Lost

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We find her in a clearing. She is near a stream that is burbling its obscenely cheery way through the silent glade.

It is hard to see her at first, because she is lying on her side in the cool green grass, hands clasped under her head.

Her lips are curved up into a soft smile, a knowing expression that chills me. Her amber eyes gaze at something only she can see, and she does not notice our sudden intrusion in this scared clearing.

No one says a word. There is nothing really to be said. Nothing to be done, but wait. Wait for her to come back to us, to give up on her dream and go on living. It is what he would have wanted.

Of course, try explaining _that _to her. She is a Weasley, after all, and they certainly stubborn if anything. They hold fast to their loyalties and their loves.

She still does not move. She is resolute, stubborn, strong. She does not want to give up her dream, and I don't want to take it from her. I will not be the one to bring her back to reality, to force her to admit that he is gone, that she will never see him again.

And so we wait…

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I am in his arms. Held in his warm embrace…but I cannot feel it, I cannot feel it, I cannot feel it…

It isn't a dream. It can't be. I won't let it be. He's alive, he's here, and he loves me. He's always loved me, I know it. The unicorns…

I know they are there, watching, waiting for me to say something.

But I won't. If I do, they'll tell me he isn't there, that I'm fooling myself. That Harry, my Harry, is dead.

If I do, it means they're right and it was all a dream.

If I do, I lose him for good.

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Hermione clings to my arm, barely holding herself upright even with my support.

But we are watching my little sister, lying on her side on the grass. She still has not moved.

"Here he is," Professor Snape announces, voice flat, voice emotionless. Hermione lets out a sob and I gather her up, holding her arms firmly in order to keep her on her feet.

She thinks I am holding her up, when really it's closer to the opposite.

We watch as Remus Lupin staggers forward and kneels down. The epitome of broken. The very vision of desolate despair.

A moment later he stands again, the limp, pale body wrapped in muddy, ragged, bloody robes in his arms.

Bare feet, covered in dirt and blood, dangle limply from one side, and I can just see the mop of dark hair, matted with its own mix of dirt and blood, resting on Remus's thin shoulder.

A hand dangles. A thin, pale hand.

Harry.

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She sits up only after Remus has left the clearing, the corpse of my best friend in his arms. Her eyes are red from weeping, but her face is set, her expression firm. She is no longer lost in her daze, no longer living in her dream. She knows now that he is dead, knows now that she will _never _have him, not the way that she wanted to have him.

Her expression is firm, but her eyes are dead. She has had to face life again, when she would rather not. Her nightmare has come true…

I have seen the envy in her eyes, when she looks at me, when she sees how much in love I am with Ron.

Because she wanted that so badly, wanted that love and contentment that I sometimes—not often—take for granted. Of course, she may someday find it again, but it will not be soon, nor will it be easy…

She is only a teenager, after all, and teens often think they are in love when they are not. Teens will fall in love a the drop of hat, will proclaim their undying passion after just days. But somehow I know that it wasn't like that…

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It is too final, to have the body as proof. To have the broken, battered, emaciated…

I had held out hope, had reserved just a little bit of my mind for the small chance that Harry had lived, had escaped.

He did escape, but he did not escape alive. The spell that killed our enemy killed him as well, but somehow, _somehow, _he was drawn to the clearing, the haven that the Unicorns of the Forbidden Forest call home.

How Ms. Weasley found him, I do not know.

Despite what others might think, I do not know everything. I cannot always tell how a thing will end, nor even how it will begin. Sometimes, I too am just a man, trying to figure out mysteries far greater than my reach.

Perhaps she was led there. Perhaps she did the leading. Perhaps I will never know.

Perhaps in the end all that matters is what happened to one boy, to one teenager.

There will be another funeral now, I suppose. Or perhaps we will bring the body back to the one still in session, place Harry in the empty coffin and lay him permanently to rest. I don't know if I can stand to see it, the coffin filled…the hope lost…

It pains me badly to know that I could do little to stop this, to keep Harry from sacrificing himself for all of us.

I feel undeserving of his sacrifice. When I look around at everyone around me, it is hard to believe that he could so willingly give it up for all of them. There are few so deserving of his love, and they are the few that are the least likely to wish for his sacrifice.

I hope I can count myself amongst them…

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It is terrible to know that I am the last.

To know that I have been…left behind…left to live…

I do not know whether I should be happy or sad.

I miss Sirius so much, I miss James…but more than anything I miss one boy, the one boy that made the loss of my friends bearable.

Harry…thin, scraggly, struggling, brooding, tired, child…

In his third year, the first year that I taught DADA, he struck something deep inside me. Of course, he looked so much like James, with Lily's eyes staring at me…

He was his parent's child, for certain. He was everything good about them that I had ever known. And I was privileged enough to be his confidant many times. To be the one that he told his dark secrets to.

And his worst secret, the one deep, dark shame that he held…the only secret that he had told no other…

He was afraid that he would squander it all, would trade the world for his life in the end.

He was afraid that he would want to live.

And I wept when he left that night, when he walked away embarrassed that he had admitted it to me. Admitted the dark fear that he held so tightly in his heart.

I wept for the twisted, skewed sense of honor that Harry believed so clearly. I wanted him to be selfish. I wanted him to think of himself, put his own wants first.

But that was it. He _wanted _to save the world by then. He wanted to show that he wasn't selfish, nevermind that he never was. Harry wanted to save his friends and everything that he loved…everyone that had ever given him a moment's kindness…

He even did it for me, I know, though I could have killed him during his third year.

It was so close that night…a few moments, a few feet, just a small hesitation…and he would have been bitten, could have been torn to pieces by my very jaws…

His determination brought Sirius back, his determination brought him back to me, to us, that night at the end of the Triwizard Tournament…he fought back and gave as good as he got…until the end…until the end…

I am lost…there is no one left to turn to…no one left to protect…

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Ginny no longer insists that Harry is still alive. She no longer demands that we do not give up.

She has accepted it, has accepted that the pale and tattered body in the casket is indeed Harry's…closure has let her accept and move…forward, but not on…

She eats and drinks, smiles wanly and laughs rarely. Like the rest of us.

But sometimes, when she thinks I do not see it, a faraway expression flits across her face and I can almost hear her soft sigh, as she thinks of what _might have been._

It is my job to catch these moments. And with each sigh, each look of longing sent Ron and Hermione's way, my heart cracks, just a little. She should have had such happiness. She should have not had to face heartbreak at so young an age…

But perhaps she will eventually move on. Not in a year, nor two, nor any time while she is still at Hogwarts, still immersed in memories.

A decade from now, perhaps, she will have let the memories melt away into the shadows, to calm themselves into deep dark pockets in her mind. And she will find love, and she will have children and be content.

And the sighs will be infrequent and shallow and short…

_What might have been _will be come distant memories, and she will find that perhaps _what might have been _has become _what has happened_ with someone else…

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Weasley—Ronald—sits alone at the desk, though there are two chairs. Weasley—Hermione—is in front of him, seated next to Neville Longbottom. That damn chair is left open, that damn spot is left a glaring eyesore in my classroom.

I am sick of it. Sick of that space, sick of the silence and the sorrow sitting in the chair, watching me with emerald eyes in every class.

The first day of class this year, someone tried to sit in the chair. A foolish seventh year Slytherin, with about as much sense as a Flobberworm.

It took all my willpower to hide the smirk as one of my Slytherins was practically thrown from the seat, and I daresay that Mr. Weasley might have growled.

"Get out of Harry's seat."

No one, _no one, _sits in Potter…Harry's…seat. Perhaps I should snidely suggest that Weasley have Potter…Harry's name carved into it, just to keep the confusion to a minimum.

I teach the class and try not to think about the empty seat. I think about the upcoming NEWTS, the crucial exams that one Gryffindor will not be taking.

It feels so ridiculous, to lecture about exams that I really could care less about. It does not matter to me who passes and who does not pass the exam. They can have their exams and they can have their evaluations and their scores. It matters less than nothing to me anymore.

The war has left me empty.

_But__ alive._

It is better than nothing, certainly, but sometimes I wish I had never made those terrible mistakes, that I had never been tempted by darkness and power.

Perhaps I could have left the war as pure and innocent as Potter…Harry.

Impossible, I suppose. I would have done _something _to warrant my sufferings in the war. I cannot think of one thing that Po…Harry did to purposely provoke his own sufferings.

Of course, hindsight is 20/20, and _now, now _after it is too late, I understand clearly that P…Harry never wanted the glory, the attention, the adoration, any of it. But I pretended that he did, let myself believe that he really did seek out the fans and play to them.

I pretended that he was his father, as silly as that sounds…

Potions will not be the same, I can tell it even now.

Of course, trying to teach one handed is incredibly inconvenient as well…more than once I have reached for a paper or an ingredient, only to find it out of reach.

The Weasley twins never tease me about it, surprisingly. It would almost be better than their slowly-softening solemnness.

At least they have proven rather capable assistants. Who would have imagined that?

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"You're not allowed to be gone."

I hear the words, I recognize the voice, but I do not know what the sentence means.

Ginny Weasley is talking to that portrait again. The one we worked so hard on…the one that she did for him, not for me…never for me…

"You said to hold on to him."

Her voice echoes around to me, words that sound accusatory and weak all at once.

"You said hold on tight."

Ginny talks to that portrait, the only one that can make it respond. Otherwise, Harry sits in his frame smiling that benign, knowing smile. The one that tells us that he is content, that he is no longer suffering…

"How can I hold on? I tried so hard…"

Her words are painful to hear, and I want to go to her, to comfort her…but I'm afraid she would turn away…she holds so tightly to Harry's memory that there's no room for anyone else.

"You left me, dammit!"

She shouts, the last curse echoing down the stone hallway. She's broken, broken in two…

"I'm afraid, Harry."

The anger has faded to whimpers of fear and sadness. Ginny is not angry at Harry. She's afraid to go on without him. She's afraid that she might love again, that she might find someone with whom she can share a future…children…love?

"How am I supposed to move on, when it hurts so much?"

I'll follow her…I'll find her again someday, when she's healed and when she's ready. Because as much as she loves Harry, I am alive.

And I love her…

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A/N: Well, that's it. Weak ending, sure, you bet, but it's all I got. This was hard to write, stirring together all the views like this, but I think it came out at least okay. You get the picture, right? Harry's dead. Very dead. And everyone's going to move on and live and love and have kids and grow old, because that's what Harry was fighting for, and that's what he would have wanted to see happen.

Ginny'll move on someday, I'm assuming. She's got someone waiting for her patiently, and he really does love her.

Maybe I'm just coldhearted and like to see that Harry's wrapped up, so to speak. There's no loose ends now, I'm pretty sure, so if there is a question, feel free to ask it. It's been fun.

--Miss Laine


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